


Is Sass An Emotional Response?

by UnsolvedRubixsCube



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amélie "My Middle Finger Likes You" Lacroix, Brainwashing, Canon Gay Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Kinda, Lena "Fight Me" Oxton, Minor Original Character(s), Murphy's Law, Other, Overwatch!Widowmaker, Please Excuse My Google Translate, Roma | Rome, Staring, Swearing, Team Talon, Team as Family, Widowmaker centric, Will add tags as I go, and, apparently subject to ninja edits, don't read this if you don't like flashbacks, eventual Widowmaker redemption arc, slowly becoming more and more of a character study, this developed a plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2018-10-24 12:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 51,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10741365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnsolvedRubixsCube/pseuds/UnsolvedRubixsCube
Summary: Widowmaker and Tracer attempt to annoy each other to death while retrieving an asset but soon they have bigger problems as they attract Talon's attention and Widowmaker's past refuses to stay buried.Story is Widowmaker centric, focuses on her identity and relationship to Talon, Overwatch, Tracer, Reaper, Sombra, and Gérard.Not Tracer X Widowmaker





	1. Meditation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [London Calling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7443724) by [SectoBoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SectoBoss/pseuds/SectoBoss). 



> Heavily inspired by London Calling by SectoBoss (go read it)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Now with hover text! Thanks too the suggestion of ArcaneAdagio~~
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> No longer with hover text because I had to re-load everything and haven't found the time to put them back in. 
> 
> Thank you to my Betas 
> 
> 2JRC, https://www.fanfiction.net/u/8056548
> 
> Peaseant, https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5650411/
> 
> PixelsShattered, https://www.fanfiction.net/u/6471571/
> 
> Dot
> 
> Cyberplum

_Widowmaker sits on a green hillside, legs tucked up beneath her. The wind blows through the clearing causing the grass to roll like waves. Further ahead the grass gives way to sand, which gives way to a body of water. A lake. Cold, muddy water ripples under the noonday sun. Around Widowmaker, birds call to each other and mosquitoes whine. In the distance, a car alarm sounds._

"We'll be touching down in five!" _Tracer's voice announces out of place among the sounds and muffled by distance._

_Widowmaker ignores her and returns her focus to the water. She watches it pulse against the shore. Like a magician pulling a handkerchief away sand, twigs, bottle caps, and shells are hidden and then revealed by the waves. Magic tricks are for children-_

"Hello?" Tracer interrupts again.

_-and not worth her attention. Widowmaker suppresses a sigh and concentrates on scene in front of her. She listens to the rustle of the leaves and the cry of the cicadas-_

"Earth to Widowmaker. Can you hear me? Hulloooooo?"

Widowmaker snaps back to reality. Her hand shoots up stopping Tracer's index finger centimeters away from poking her head.

"Yes _._  I heard you. I have been hearing you for the entire trip." Widowmaker releases Tracer's hand.

"Good! Then you know we're almost there!" Tracer brings her hand up to her mouth imitates speaking into a microphone. "All passengers are to return their seats to the upright position, turn off all electronics for no reason, and continue to ignore all screaming babies. We will be landing shortly. Again, we'd like to thank you for flying Air Tracer and remind you that all barrel-rolls were completely necessary."

Widowmaker has a feeling this is going to be a very long mission. Tracer adjusts her grip on the yolk and guides the VTOL down towards Italy.

"Catching a few Zs before the big mission?" Tracer chirps.

"No."

Widowmaker is not tired. She can operate at peak efficiency after four hours of sleep, one of the many perks of her augmentations. And as for this being a "big" mission, that is quite ridiculous. Her talents are wasted here. She and Tracer are nothing more than glorified errand girls. Surely Overwatch has underlings that could attend to this 'mission' but she can't voice her irritation. Not when she has such a tenuous relationship with Overwatch.

"Well if you weren't catching forty winks what were you doing?"

"I was meditating-"

"Ooo! Visiting your happy place? Genji does that all the time before missions now. Says it keeps him centered. Where is it?"

The assassin glances at Tracer out of the corner of her eye. She didn't expect her to be so... perceptive.

"The shooting range," Widowmaker lies.

Tracer's grin shrinks back to what is humanly possible. She lets out an  _o_ _h_  and returns her attention to flying the aircraft. Widowmaker basks in, what is sure to be, the short-lived silence.

"Ciampino Tower has cleared Orange 255 for approach," the plane's AI says flatly.

"Pilot copies. Prepare for descent and landing," Tracer responds flipping some switches.

The nose of the VTOL tips downwards towards Rome. Widowmaker can begin to pick out road lights and building below the backdrop of the night sky.

"Look, Ma, no hands!" Tracer says throwing her hands in the air.

Widowmaker lets out a small sigh.

Suddenly the plane jerks and trembles. Widowmaker's teeth clatter in her mouth. Her fingers dig into the armrest.

"Put your hands in the air!" Tracer calls out. "It's more fun with your hands in the air!"

Tracer lets out a shriek as the plane drops, steadies itself, and then continues shaking. Widowmaker braces as her heads snaps back and forth. At least this foolishness will be over soon. Tracer would never do anything to strain the plane; the girl had called it  _drop-dead gorgeous_  back at the base, after all. Such sentimentality. Slowly, the plane stops shuddering and continues its descent towards the private airport.

"Woo! That was a good one!" Tracer says with a wild grin. Her eyes flicker to Widowmaker's death grip on the armrests. "Did the big bad turbulence scare nasty old Widowmaker?"

"I do not feel fear," she scoffs.

She didn't. She was concerned about how she would return to Gibraltar without a plane and how Overwatch would be less than welcoming if she returned without Tracer but she was not afraid. Just aggravated by the numerous complications falling out of the sky would cause.

"Piloting a multimillion euro aircraft with your knees. Your flight instructor must be so proud," Widowmaker says pointedly.

Tracer laces her fingers behind her head, leans back, and sets her feet up on the VTOL's dashboard; much to Widowmaker's chagrin.

"Actually, I'm not piloting us at all luv. Autopilot's got us covered for the full approach and descent. Landing too, if I wanted, but that's the fun part. Good old Charley here can practically fly himself. Landing, take off, adjust course for weather, the full nine yards. Been that way from the early 2000s. The only reason pilots aren't out of a job yet is that us meat sacks aren't affected by EMPs. And after the Crisis no one wants an AI flying the plane, not without supervision. Never mind they've been doing it for years..."

 _Adieu, Monsieur Silence_. Our time together was so short. Promise me you will write.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> Adieu, Monsiuer Silence - Farewell Mister Silence
> 
> /The lake doesn’t have any real significance. It’s just a nice memory from a place Amélie visited in her childhood. There is a significance in that its Widowmaker’s happy place./ 
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Second chapter will be up soon because they're both short. 
> 
> If you see any errors (grammar, spelling, translation, or other wise) please let me know so I can fix it. 
> 
> Hope you have nice day!
> 
> Edited 2 /23/18, Betaed by Dot


	2. Benvenuti a Roma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Rome

[ROME, ITALY - CIAMPINO PRIVATE AIRPORT - PRESENT DAY 07:03]

The VTOL's tires touchdown and Widowmaker begrudgingly admits that the landing is  _as smooth as silk_  just as Tracer promised.

Widowmaker stows her visor in her Louis Vuitton bag alongside her compacted rifle. She pulls out her disguise, a nano-fiber mask built to hide her unique condition, and places it on her face. It bonds to her skin instantly. The plastic blends into her hairline, covers her neck, and tugs ever so slightly at her ears. Even after all this time she still hasn't gotten used to how it feels; it's like a layer of latex painted over her flesh. A fitted overcoat and gloves cover the rest of her blue complexion. Her outfit might draw a little attention, Rome is warm even before sunrise, but it's a tourist destination. Her coat won't be the most outlandish thing seen today.

Tracer pulls on a large leather jacket, no doubt normally used to hide her Chronal Accelerator; now it just hangs awkwardly on her slight frame. She also slips on a ball cap and a pair of aviators to hide her face. The pilot is already " _decked out in her civvies_ ", a pair of cargo pants and running shoes. As they disembark, Tracer slings a worn duffle bag over her shoulder; it most likely holds said Accelerator and other illegal weapons.

Widowmaker hangs back, remaining under the VTOL, the only good cover on the empty runway. Tracer is speaking to the ground crew. She says something with great flourish and the men in reflective vest her laugh. There are backslaps and handshakes all around. A woman in a business suit struts across the tarmac towards them. She motions for Tracer and Widowmaker to come over to her. Tracer gives the ground crew one last remark and then leaves the circle. Widowmaker pushes off the VTOL and walks over. As she pass the ground crew she spies the leader of the group thumbing through a wad of cash.

"Captain Oscar," the businesswoman says, "and company. Your arrival has been cleared with my superiors. Please follow me."

Widowmaker gets the feeling that their clearance has nothing to do with the plane's landing. They follow the woman through the small but clean airport and around the security checkpoint. The terminals are empty except for the odd traveler or an outdated AIs. The businesswoman stops at the entrance lobby and nods goodbye. Then as if she had forgotten a formality, spits out " _Buongiorno"_  before spinning on her heel and strutting off to more important matters.

"Well she was just a regular ray of sunshine, wasn't she?" Tracer asks rhetorically.

Widowmaker is tempted to run after the woman and beg her to hire her on as private security. It would be heavenly to work with someone professional for once.

Instead, she follows the Overwatch Agent over to a row of self-driving taxis outside the airport. Tracer inserts her credit card into one of the cabs. The door eats her card and unlocks with a pop. Tracer slides into the passenger's seat and Widowmaker joins her on the wheel-less driver's side. Tracer punches in their destination on the taxi's screen and the engine roars to life. Widowmaker memories the address a split second before it vanishes from the screen. Such information is not given to her for security reasons. She assumes Soldier 76 knows she can obtain any critical information on her own.

The taxi's antigravs create a smooth ride despite the cobblestone streets. The sun peeks over the horizon, red and orange light flashes between the stone buildings. Inside the cab Widowmaker notes that Tracer has copied her position; bag in her lap- ready to be snatched up at a moment's notice- eyes flickering from window to mirror to window, posture relaxed but alert in case she has to fight or run. One does not survive in their line of work for long without developing some particular habits even if they do have the ability to reverse time.

They arrive at their hotel, a seven-story structure far enough away from tourist sites to avoid the crowds. The building is lavish with marble stairs and gold trim but the rugs are worn thin and the tiny elevator is out of service. Widowmaker suspects that hot water will not be guaranteed and the "free" Wi-Fi will be spotty.

She and Tracer go to check in. A young black man with a robotic index finger runs the front desk. His eyes flicker to her only once and then remain locked on Tracer's much friendlier face. Tracer takes the keys with a smile. They climb the steep, curving stairs lugging their belongings behind them. Widowmaker muses that if someone were to fall down the steps they could suffer a concussion and broken bones, possibly even a broken neck if they were angled correctly.

After reaching their door Widowmaker voices her concern.

"Only one room?" she asks.

Tracer shrugs and unlocks the door. Widowmaker notes the deadbolt is of high quality and the apartment is one of the more spacious rooms. Thank God.

Unfortunately, the carpet is a tacky red that clashes with the drapes, the light fixtures are mismatched, and there is a suspicious blood-like stain on the wall. A second glance reveals that the walls and front door are too thick. They have been lined with sound and bullet stopping material. A well placed precaution.

The entrance leads into a kitchenette with an island a small table against the wall, past it a small entertainment area. The entertainment side has an old couch and a TV. To the right and through another doorway she can see the other half of the apartment; another room with four single beds and a bathroom.

The two balconies create a total of three exits, not nearly enough if you asked her. The apartment is dismally lacking in good spots to stash weapons or use in an ambush but the room is built like a bunker. All things considered, it will do, for a few hours at least.

"Safe rooms are expensive. Besides, splitting up the party is a strategic disadvantage. Yeah?" Tracer says, answering her question.

"Isn't that awkward?"

Not even Tracer can deny that the motley crew pretending to be Overwatch doesn't have its fair share of issues with each other.

"Everyone acts like adults out in the field. If you can't, then you don't belong in Overwatch, now do you? Besides if you're about to die besides someone it's a kinda pointless to be upset about seeing them in their skivvies."

She wouldn't know. The ex-Talon agent mostly worked alone, sometimes with Reaper, sometimes with a Special Ops unit but she never roomed with anyone.

"First dibs on the bunks!" Tracer shouts, racing into the other room.

Widowmaker hears one of the beds strain under a sudden increase in weight. This is followed by a string of curses and the girl rambling about bloody thin mattresses with no springs.

She strolls over to the outdated TV, the model can't even display in 3D without special glasses. Pathetic.

"Show weather predictions for my location," Widowmaker commands.

The screen blinks to life and displays a dizzying amount of information: humidity, cloud cover, wind speeds, sun intensity, and air quality just to name a few. A smile tugs at her lips. Perhaps Overwatch does have some of its priorities straight.

"Oh, that's much better," Tracer says throwing herself on the couch. She has changed into pink leggings and a t-shirt. "You gonna take off the mask, luv? Full offense intended, you look really weird with it on."

Most people would say it was the other way around. That Widowmaker's blue skin was disturbing, not the flesh mimicking mask. But Tracer had never met her back Before, had she? Widowmaker tilts her head, shifting through her memories. Ah, that's right. They never met in person but Amélie did know her. Or rather, Amélie Lacroix had known about Lena "Tracer" Oxton. Then just a hotshot pilot, Tracer was something between an Air Force legend and a drinking game, "take a shot every time the whizkid did something outrageously stupid". Gérard was very happy she was Morrison's problem and not his.

"That depends on what the plan of attack is," Widowmaker replies.

"That's right! I'm in charge, aren't I?" Tracer says with glee.

All the ways the mission could fail horribly flash through Widowmaker's mind.

"Well, we're here to collect some Intel from an informant. They're real paranoid like since they defected from the baddies which makes sense. Insisted on speaking only to core Overwatch members in person and such. So I was thinking I'd meet them at a tourist location, one with metal detectors and stonewalls. You'd follow on the rooftops and watch for danger. If something goes wrong you cover us, I'll escort them to safety, and we'll meet back at the hotel."

It's not the best plan she's ever heard, but not the worst, either.

"It all seems rather... straightforward," she remarks.

"The best plans are the simple ones, less to go wrong."

"I just hope you haven't confused simplicity with elegance. Also, it will be difficult to cover you if you are inside a building."

"Cap could do it and she wouldn't be sitting here whining about it. Aren't you supposed to be Talon's best?"

"I am the best. But that does not mean I do not have my limitations. If something goes wrong it will be on your head,  _ma_   _chére_."

"We better make sure nothing goes wrong then!"

This girl will be the death of her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> Buongiorno - Good Morning
> 
> Dieu merci - Thank God
> 
> Ma Chére - My Dear
> 
> /Widowmaker and Amélie are the same person. Not only does it make things more interesting (read sadder) but in the Alive clip Widowmaker says "when I was a girl..." Not "when Amélie was a girl."
> 
> I'll be trying to keep things as canon compliant as possible unless I forget something or I think it's stupid.
> 
> *confetti* Overwatch's time line is garbage so I will continue to be vague about dates *confetti* /
> 
> 2/23/19 Edited, Betaed by Dot


	3. Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracer and Widowmaker make contact with the asset.

[ROME - TABULARIUM - 19:54 - 16.5 METERS ABOVE STREET LEVEL]

The sun dips lower in the sky as Widowmaker shifts in her perch. She sits roughly five stories in the air on top of a tower, a clock tower possibly (irrelevant), overlooking the Campidoglio. The Campidoglio is a hilltop plaza surrounded by several museums. The square's cobblestones display a white on black design that looks like a it was made by a warped Spirograph. In the center stands a bronze statue of a Roman soldier on horseback.

Behind her is the Forum, meters and meters of decaying buildings and crumbling stone. Widowmaker did not understand the appeal of traveling thousands of kilometers just to stand in the sun and look at collapsed government buildings. To look at paintings, sculptures, mosaics, and actual art? Yes. The remains of a few hundred pillar that all looked the same? No.

From her position she has a great view the multitude of travelers, human and omnic alike, all dressed in bright, gaudy colors and, ugh, fanny packs. Somewhere below Tracer is playing tourist, running from one free entry site to the next, as she has been for the last hour, all under the pretense of RECON. Widowmaker is careful not to complain too much. Tracer's short attention span has given her time to scrutinize the area, plan escape routes, and actually prepare.

"You know, I didn't expect the Coliseum to be all crumbly. I mean it's really impressive and all but almost half of it is missing. They don't show that in the vids," Tracer says.

Widowmaker gives up reminding Tracer that the secure line is meant for important communication and glances at the image on her phone. Tracer, like the hundred of tourists around her, is maintaining a live vidcall as she explores Rome. Right now she's showing Widowmaker the outside of the Coliseum.

"Most historical landmarks are only shown from a specific angle to keep up the illusion that they are untouched by time. Both the Pyramids of Giza and Stonehenge are only a few minutes away from civilization but are depicted to be out in the wilderness." Widowmaker shrugs. "Such is marketing."

"A tour guide said that gladiators dueled and big cats were hunted for sport in front of crowds up to sixty thousand!" Tracer whistles in appreciation. "Those Romans sure knew how to party."

"Many events were held there beyond Hollywood's clichéd gladiatorial combat," Widowmaker snaps. "Circuses preformed, criminals were executed, dramas were acted out. And the staged hunts starred deer, elephants, hyenas, bears, and giraffes just to name a few."

"Hmm. You sure do know a lot about history, luv."

"You would too if you paid an ounce of attention in your classes, idiot."

"Hey! I paid attention plenty! I memorized pages about air pressure, dial readings, weather patterns, flight formations-"

Widowmaker mutes her phone, which now shows Tracer's irritated face.

Gérard was the one who was interested in ancient civilizations. Greek gods, Indian Trade Routes, Chinese Dynasties, Roman Emperors, Feudal Japan, Native American Tribes, African Kingdoms; if the society was dead and forgotten he wanted to learn everything about it he could.

He. They... Hadn't they... They went to Rome for a celebration. An anniversary? A birthday? A promotion perhaps? Widowmaker can't remember why. They spent a week here, traveling, eating, shopping, and seeing the sites. They visited ruins for him, museums for her. Their first outing was cut short because she wore heels instead of flats.  _Stupid._  Gérard insisted on visiting five shops to find a pair of walking shoes that wouldn't irritate her feet.

Widowmaker jumps down from the tower. She moves swiftly over the rooftops, stopping at another hiding place she scouted out earlier. Mechanically, she raises her scope to her eye and focuses on one tourist and then another, inspecting them. Not a threat, not a threat, pickpocket, not a threat, who let you dress yourself, ex-military, not a threat. The familiar routine calms her, forcing her mind back on the mission.

Her ear com pings. Tracer has sent her a text. The informant has finally contacted them. They will be arriving at the Musei Capitolini in a few minutes. Widowmaker watches Tracer cross the plaza through her scope. The Overwatch agent pushes her way through the crowd of people and up the steps to the hilltop. Aviator sunglasses and a cap pulled low hides her face. The museum's security forced her to dump her pistols. (Widowmaker doesn't know where and she didn't ask.) Tracer's harness is hidden in the backpack on her shoulders. She managed to pass it off as a medical device after bribing a security guard with Overwatch paraphernalia.

Tracer stands in the courtyard and takes a long slow look around at the upper windows and gutters. After a few seconds she wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

"You can't tell but I'm winking at you," Tracer whispers over the com.

"Just focus on the mission," Widowmaker hisses.

Tracer's heat signature moves through the museum. She flirts from room to room, oohing and aahhing at this sculpture or that fresco. To Widowmaker's relief Tracer does remember to keep to the perimeter of the building so she can follow her through the windows.

On the third floor Tracer stops in front of a tapestry. After a moment another tourist (Japanese male, early thirties, noncombatant) comes over beside her.

"The eyes are bit odd dontcha think? The way they follow you around the room. Spooky," Tracer says.

"Yes. It almost feels like they are watching over you," the tourist says.

His choice of words does not go unnoticed. He must be the informant. Tracer keeps up friendly chatter as Widowmaker moves to another roof so she can see down the hallway. Tracer throws her arm around the man's waist, insisting that she take him to lunch so they can compare tour guides. Widowmaker reluctantly acknowledges that Tracer does make a very convincing vacationer. The duo turn their backs to her, retracing their steps down the hallway, subtly making their way to the exit. She needs to cover them until Tracer regains her pistols or moves the informant to a secure location.

A museum employee shushes Tracer for being too loud. Tracer apologizes explaining that she just  _loves_  antiques and tends to get excited. The employee says something the com can't pick up. During their conversation a tour group enters the hallway, filling it with loud and sweaty tourists. Widowmaker frowns. Another complication. She needs to make sure she doesn't lose the informant in the crowd. Widowmaker shifts her weight preparing to relocate but stops. Something about the tour group is bothering her.

She scans the hallway again. The tour guide has stopped and is explaining something to the group. Most of the tourists have started to spread out along the corridor. A few are too close to the informant for her liking. An omnic (humanoid, clothed, noncombat model) approaches them. It makes its way down the hall a bit too directly. It will collide with Tracer if it does not adjust its course. Something about the way the omnic moves unsettles Widowmaker.

No. Not an omnic. A threat.

Widowmaker lines up the shot, prepares for the pause between heartbeats, and pulls the trigger. Several things appear to happen at once: her suppressed rifle lets out a crack, a hole appears in the window, Tracer's hair flutters, and the supposed omnic drops dead centimeters away from the informant's shoes.

Widowmaker waits for the electric tingle in her chest, the satisfaction of another kill so masterfully completed. Nothing. She frowns. That was a difficult shot, not hitting Tracer, any of the antiques, or the tourists. She should feel something. She should feel alive.

The tour group erupts into a panic. Some rush away from the omnic, some rush towards it. The museum employee yells at a family of Americans who backed into a tapestry. The tour guide is trying to call for order and an ambulance at the same time. And the informant is... gone. That could be a problem.

Suddenly her scope is wrenched away revealing the face of a furious certain teleporting Overwatch agent.

"What the bloody hell, luv," Tracer growls.

Widowmaker takes a half step back. Tracer is showing an emotion other than some shade of cheerfulness. She would consider this a victory if she weren't so concerned about her immediate future.

Tracer grabs her by the shoulder and blinks them away to a more secluded rooftop.

Widowmaker's body does not like that. Her stomach was behind left two blinks back. Her heart is pounding off rhythm. Her brain feels its been compressed and stretched out like putty. She's pretty sure her left leg just went numb.

Tracer takes a wild swing. Widowmaker slides to the left of it. What a relief, she's still as predictable as ever.

"Why'd you have to go an' kill the omnic you bint? They weren't doing anything!"

Widowmaker slaps another punch away.

"That wasn't an omnic,  _ma_   _chère_. Calm yourself. You're acting like a child."

"Wha- How do you know?" Tracer sputters, "You weren't exactly there."

"Omnic movement's are precise, calculated, designed. Always on the second or some fraction of. This one's was not."

"So what? Some bot's off-kilter and that makes is A-Okay to blow their central processing unit out!"

"It was a man or woman wearing a suit, a disguise and armor all in one. I've seen it before on missions." Widowmaker draws herself up to her full height. "It was walking right towards the informant, whom you were supposed to protect. I made a decision and eliminated the threat."

"And shooting it was obviously the best solution. You don't think dropping a body won't draw some attention. You didn't think 'Well golly gee, I see something suspicious. I'll ring up Tracer on my com and warn her.'" Tracer jabs at her earpiece. "That's what these are for, mate! Communication!"

Widowmaker lifts her chin and crosses her arms. Her superiors never questioned her.  _Une_   _balle, un mort_. As always. She glares down at Tracer, reveling in the almost fifteen-centimeter height difference.

"I stand by my decision. If you don't like it go back and change it," she says.

Tracer's mouth opens and closes, looking like a fish out of water.

"That's not how it works!" Tracer explodes, throwing her hands up in the air.

She spins on her heel and paces back and forth across the rooftop. Tracer grinds her teeth and lists some very creative place Widowmaker could put her rifle and venom mines.

Widowmaker tsks to herself. Tracer's foul mouth would make Commander Morrison roll in his grave. For a second she allows herself the pleasure of imagining the ghost of Morrison floating above the rooftop screaming " _Language!"_

Tracer turns back to her, face still flushed and breathing hard.

"I'm going to go for a run, try and work out how to recover this dog's dinner. You go do whatever the fuck you want. Be back at the hotel at twenty-one hundred. Got it."

" _Oui_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N
> 
> As always I'd love to hear what you think good or bad about my work.
> 
> Please PM me about any corrections grammar, spelling, translation or other problems.
> 
> Now with Italics because I didn't realize FF stripped out the formatting...
> 
> Translations
> 
> Ma Chére – My dear
> 
> Une balle, un mort – one shot, one kill
> 
> Oui - yes
> 
> /All that stuff about the Pyramids, Stonehenge, and the Coliseum is true.
> 
> The Campidoglio and the Museum are real places.
> 
> The level of violence will vary by chapter but it will never be super graphic or gory.
> 
> No time travel in this fic. Not only is not something you can't do in the game but it also causes to many problems. Once you introduce it you have the solution to every problem or you create *shutters* paradoxes.
> 
> Widowmaker does know who Soldier 76 is but she respects that Commander Morrison is dead. /
> 
> 2/23/19 Edited, Betaed by Dot


	4. Dinner and Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or the girls complain about each other to their respective friends.

[SIDE STREETS - 20:20]

With all the clothing boutiques closed, Widowmaker procures a mask and goes out for dinner. She walks the winding side alleys away from the popular eateries searching for something a little more secluded.

The backstreets are dark and empty. The vendors have packed up for the night leaving only drunk tourist and the few streetwise locals meandering about. The lack of sunlight divides the city into two areas. The ones that are lit up by lampposts, flashing neon signs, or the flames of a patio heater and the ones that are pitch black; reminding roamers of a not so distant past without electric lighting. The air smells of rain, well-prepared meat, and near sewer grates piss, shit, and ammonia. The streets remind her of Paris.

Ten minutes later she stops at her destination, a small pizzeria. Amélie might have eaten here in the past; Widowmaker might have seen it when planning escape routes.

She takes a seat at a two-person table ignoring the bread set out. The restaurant will charge if she touches it and she does not want to ruin her appetite. She orders antipasto, coda alla vaccinara, and a bottle of red wine. Overwatch is much more lax about her diet than Talon's nutritionists ever were.

While waiting for her food to arrive Amélie pulls out her phone. It has web access, chat/vid capabilities, and social apps. Everything a bad little assassin needs, all courtesy of Overwatch. But the information is heavily filtered, her activity monitored, and the device doubles as a tracking device, of course. Widowmaker knows all of this and Overwatch knows she knows, so she plays along. She can procure a clean phone from an unsuspecting civilian anytime she needs to do something illicit.

She's surprised to see she has one new message. Most of the agents avoid speaking to her except for thinly veiled threats. Some less veiled than others. The child, D. Va, takes great pleasure in thinking up new nicknames for her. In this way Overwatch and Talon are similar. At Talon she dealt with fear disguised as respect. At Overwatch, it is fear disguised as hatred.

The message is from Hanzo. An odd but not unwelcome change from Dr. Ziegler's stiff check-ups and Soldier 76's cold orders. Hanzo understands that allies and friends are two separate categories that sometimes overlap. This is a concept that eludes most of the Overwatch agents. In the past, he worked with professional liars, killers, and thieves to expand and maintain the Shimada Empire. In a different life, he would have been an outstanding Talon agent.

While Amélie toys with the phone her mind wanders to her last day of freedom.

* * *

_[ABKHAZIA, GEORGIA - ROOFTOPS - 7 MONTHS AGO]_

_It had been two months after she was betrayed by Talon. Widowmaker flirted from city to city, moving as far away from the charred remains of her stolen aircraft as she could. She kept a low profile, stayed in safe houses from various organizations (plus the occasional five-star hotel), and never ventured out during the day. She tried her hardest to disappear, continuing the illusion that she was dead._

_Somehow Overwatch found her. Before it wouldn't have been a problem but weeks of being on the run finally caught up with her. She and Tracer performed their typical song and dance across the rooftops. Widowmaker was desperately trying to figure out how she could escape before Tracer realized there wasn't an extraction team hiding in the wings._

_Every shot she took at the girl missed as Tracer blinked around her with that infuriating giggle. She raised her rifle to fire when suddenly there was a piercing pain in her arm._

_Widowmaker looked expecting to see a graze from the pulse pistols; instead, she saw an arrow jutting out of her forearm. The shaft stuck out of her grappling hook arm-mount. She felt blood trickling into her sleeve. Her body armor was designed to protect her from bullets. Not arrows._

_Tracer appeared next to her. Widowmaker dropped and rolled on instinct._

_An arrow. An arrow. Who used a bow and arrow in the twenty-first century?_

_She popped up and continued running._

_She couldn't use her grappling hook without risking furthering her injury. While it was almost impossible for her to bleed out, she healed very slowly. She was going to need good medial supplies, professional medial supplies. She was going to have to rob a hospital. Again._

_She pivoted, dropped to one knee, and open fired with her gun in the assault rifle configuration. She could feel the arrow's head tearing into her muscles. The pain made it difficult to hold her rifle steady. The wide spray hit Tracer forcing her to recall. Widowmaker gained a few more seconds as the Accelerator went dark._

* * *

Now, Amélie flexes her healed arm. Her glove and coat cover the scars and tattoos. She opens the message.

Hanzo: How goes the mission? Run into any trouble yet?

She taps out a reply.

Widow: How did you guess?

Hanzo: The day a mission runs smoothly is the day the sun falls into the ocean. Something always goes wrong.

Hanzo: What happened?

Widow: We reached the safe house without a problem. Tracer contacted the informant, but complications caused her to lose them. We're taking some down time before we regroup and reassess the situation.

Hanzo: Careful. Prose such as that might encourage Athena to assign you to write mission reports.

Hanzo: Allow me to rephrase my question.

Hanzo: How goes the mission with Twitchy?

Amélie smirks. There is no doubt in her mind who has been bestowed with that nickname. Part of her is disappointed she didn't think of the epithet earlier. Part of her wonders what contemptuous title has been given to her.

Widow: If I didn't know that Dr. Ziegler would never allow it I would suspect that her blood had been replaced with caffeine.

Widow: Or one of those ridiculous energy drink concoctions.

Widow: Besides being the human personification of a firecracker she's been completely useless.

Widow: I think you have been in a similar situation?

Hanzo: If she is anything like my brother was I assure you no one will blame you for shooting her a little.

Hanzo: Non-lethally, I mean. It's not like any injury she sustains will be permanent anyways.

Widow: I shall take a moment to point out that was your idea, and I have in no way endangered any of my teammates.

Widow: But

Widow: I have been toying with the idea of sewing her mouth shut.

Hanzo: I mixed an adhesive into Genji's toothpaste once. The next few hours were complete bliss.

Hanzo: Well. Almost complete bliss.

Hanzo: Genji retaliated of course. Ruined all my uniforms.

Hanzo: He cut off all of my right sleeves. I had to pretend it was some grand fashion statement.

Hanzo: The lack of fabric did increase my range of motion in battle.

Widow: You just keep pretending that your exposed nipple isn't the fashion crime of the century.

Hanzo: I believe you said something about "losing your informant"? Sounds pretty sloppy for a master assassin.

A waiter comes over to her table, handing off her food. Widowmaker gives him a curt thank you and sets her phone aside. She takes her pills and picks at her food, careful to take small, measured bites of everything. She can't eat too much. Her slow digestion system won't allow it. She savors each bite, appreciating the rich mixtures of flavors. Italian isn't quite the same as a properly prepared _Blanquette de Veau_ , but anything is better than the chain restaurants that the OW agents are so fond of.

Amélie returns to the conversation on her phone. Hanzo's sudden change in topic is proof of his embarrassment, any other time she would pursue such an obvious weakness, but what caused the mission to snag was  _not_  her fault.

Widow: To clarify it was Tracer's job to protect the informant at close range. At which she failed.

Widow: Miserably.

Widow: Instead I recognized the threat and prevented the informant from getting their brains splattered all over the floor.

Hanzo: So now not only is there a "threat" but somehow it got close enough to endanger the life of your asset?

Widow:

Widow: Hanzo

Widow: You may want to take a moment to remember who you are speaking to

Widow: And what you are accusing me of

Hanzo: My sincerest apologies Widowmaker.

Hanzo: It was not my intent to offend you.

Hanzo: I am just trying to fully understand your situation so I can best assist you. It appears your mission is going more poorly than I originally thought.

Amélie shifts in her seat, uncomfortable. Hanzo is an ally and has proven to be both trustworthy and experienced on and off the battlefield. Mission failure is unacceptable. She sighs and starts tapping out her reply. There are worse people she could be talking to about this.

Widow: An enemy agent infiltrated the meeting and almost ruined everything. I shot them in the head. The informant slipped away in the chaos. Tracer's only contribution was to throw a tantrum afterward. She was upset I didn't tell her that I was going to shoot beforehand.

Hanzo: I see.

Widow: I warned her it would be difficult to cover her from inside a building.

Widow: But did she listen?

Widow: No.

Hanzo: Did you offer any alternatives?

Widow: I expressed my concerns, and she ignored them.

Widow: I just... expected more from her in the field.

Widow: Though I don't know why.

Hanzo: Hmm.

Hanzo: From what I have observed Miss Oxton is use to working alone or in small groups; scouting ahead or taking down fast moving targets.

Hanzo: It is safe to assume that she isn't normally in a leadership position.

Hanzo: I'm not saying your actions were incorrect or uncalled for.

Hanzo: But while her immature and carefree behavior mimics my brother's during his playboy days it is evident that Tracer does care about the success of the operation.

Widow:

Widow: Careful Hanzo. That almost sounded like advice. You don't want to lose your reputation as an emotionally hardened warrior, do you?

Hanzo: I do not believe you are in any position to judge my emotional state.

Amélie continues her friendly banter with Hanzo until her food is cold. She accepts the waiter's offer for a box. She won't need it but if the rumors are correct Tracer eats for the equivalent of five. And the girl probably went to one of those overpriced eateries that served watered down food for tourist. Even if this entire mission is a failure, she will expand Tracer's palate beyond spaghetti.

* * *

[SAINT MICHAEL HOTEL - SAFE HOUSE - 20:27]

Lena stares down at her personal pizza in her lap, still in its box. The TV plays silently to her left. She scooches down the couch stretching out her legs. Ah, the advantages of being short.

She had decided to eat back in the hotel after seeing the line for a table. (It had taken her 23 minutes and 45 seconds to advance three steps.) She was relieved to see that Widowmaker wasn't back and Athena informed her the assassin hadn't tried to flee the country, yet.

"So I take it the mission didn't go too well?" Hana asks.

Lena glances up at her tablet precariously balanced on the couch's back. On the screen, Hana takes a sip of a can of soda. In the background, Reinhardt is playing a friendly game of chess with Torbjörn. Lena forces a smile.

"What? Pshh, no. Why would you think that?" Lena asks.

"Cause this is the third time you've sighed in the last two minutes and you've been stabbing at your pizza with a fork," Hana says.

Lena frowns and looks at her half-eaten pizza again. She knows it's "authentic" and all, but it's just too different. The dough doesn't taste right, there's hardly any cheese on it, and the whole thing is dripping in olive oil.

"The mission went fine. I met the informant and everything," she says. "Not a single hitch. Nothing unexpected happened because of a certain sniper. That's for sure. All rainbows and sunshine. It was completely hunky dory. No problem, no problems at all."

"Are you being sarcastic or passive-aggressive because I can't tell," Hana asks.

"Honestly, I don't know anymore," Lena says leaning back over the couch arm.

"Uh-huh. So how badly did you mess up?"

Lena closes her eyes and sees the touring omnic drop to the floor (4 hours 18 minutes 16 seconds past), Mondatta's hand flopping lifelessly again and again on the news reports (11,130 hours past), hears the crack of Widowmaker's rifle, sees-hears-feels the bullet too close, far too close to her skin.

She drapes her arm over her face. She isn't going to be doing a lot of sleeping tonight.

"Can we talk about something else?" she asks from under her arm.

"Sure," Hana says, "How's Mrs. Blue Man Group Reject?"

"Eh, you know. Same old, same old." Lena sits back up. "She's still all 'I feel no emotions. Never mind that I throw a hissy fit whenever Ana is around. My gun is my only friend.' " Tracer kisses an imaginary rifle.

Hana giggles on screen.

"Ooh, do McCree next! No! Junkrat! No! Reaper!" Hana demands.

"From the shadows," Lena says in a preposterously deep voice, "Comes a gigantic butt." Hana snorts and spits out some of her drink. "Also," Lena continues, "I thought robbing a Halloween store would be a good way to hide my daddy issues."

Hana shakes with laughter. Behind her, chess pieces fly into the air and, Reinhardt lets out a happy roar. Lena smiles. If Angie were to walk by and tell her to get her shoes off the couch, she'd be right back at home. She waits for Hana to get her breath back before continuing.

"It wouldn't be so bad if she wasn't serious about it. Its one thing to have a persona for the public; it's another to be it."

Self-made gaming wizard, YouTube star, movie actress, and national icon Hana Song nods in understanding.

"But she is getting better right? I mean, the whole reason Spiderbitch is allowed out is because Mercy said therapy was working," Hana says.

"I guess? Maybe? I don't think her wanting to shoot me in the face is much of an improvement. That's pretty much what our entire relationship was founded on in the first place," Lena says frowning.

"What?"

"Oh you know, she shoots at me, I shoot at her, she says something in French, I kick her teeth in." Lena's grin turns predatory for a second. "She's my archenemy I'll have you know. Having a nemesis is  _the_  sign that you've made it as a hero."

"I hate to tell you this, but I'm pretty sure the Smurf considers Hanzo to be her archrival or whatever. With both of them being snipers with sticks up their rears and all."

  
"She's cheating on me!" Lena fake gasps. "Doesn't she know that will tear our family apart?"

Hana rolls her eyes and says, "Considering you called her a 'purple hourglass full of shite' I don't think she cares."

"Oi! She called Mei an orca. Nobody talks to Mei like that."

"And I'm pretty sure your girlfriend will tear you apart if she ever hears about this conversation."

Lena freezes.

"Ah. You won't tell Emily about this will you, luv?" She asks cautiously.

"Hmm. Depends. What's it to you?" Hana asks with a smug grin.

Lena pauses and then smiles much to Hana's confusion.

"Blackmail? Oh, Hana, I'm so proud," Lena coos.

"What?"

"Look at you. My little sis all grown-up."

"Stop."

"Such a milestone,"

"I am a legal ad- Oh, forget it."

"Gremlin's First Extortion. I think I might cry," she says wiping at a fake tear.

"Come on, Lena, its bad enough I get all that stuff from the old folks. I don't need it from you too," Hana growls.

"I only tease because I looooove you."

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Athena says. Her logo pulses gently in the corner of the screen. "But I finished reviewing the museum's video footage. I believe it is prominent that Lena sees the results."

"Sounds important," Hana says brightly, happy to leave her to do actual work. "Have fun with that. See you in a few days!"

Hana flashes a peace sign and ends the call before Lena can argue. Lena suppresses another sigh.

"Alright, luv. Let's see what you've got," she says to Athena.

* * *

[SAFE HOUSE - 20:50]

Widowmaker returns to the safe house to find Tracer sitting on the edge of the couch shouting at a football game on the TV.

"Go! Go! Go! No! Augh! You complete prat! I told you to watch your six!" Tracer yells.

Widowmaker sets her leftovers in the refrigerator. She notes that the unit is very sturdy, locks from the outside, and could hold an average sized person. She makes her way to the bathroom. Taking off the nanomask and changing into a fresh suit will be nice.

Tracer clears her throat. She stops in the doorway.

"So..." Tracer starts.

Widowmaker turns to face her. The announcers on the TV start screaming, the blue team scored a goal. Tracer frowns and turns down the volume. She refocuses on Widowmaker with a smile that has the faintest hint of embarrassment in it.

"So, um, it looks like I owe you an apology. Athena ran the security footage from the museum, and the omnic chap's movement patterns matched that of the same model only 12% of the time. Also, the body mysteriously vanished on its way to the hospital. That pretty much proves they weren't here on holiday."

Tracer pauses and crosses her arms before folding them behind her head only to lower them back to her sides. She pats her leggings a few times as if to give her hands a reason to be there.

"Shooting 'em was some quick thinking on your part. I'm going to need some sort of  _warning_  if you ever do that again. But, ah, you did good," Tracer says with a nod. And then a half nod as if to confirm with herself that this is the correct way to praise the rogue sniper.

Widowmaker can only hope that this exchange is as awkward for Tracer as it is for her. She will never shoot another Omnic again if she can avoid another conversation like this.

She leans against the doorframe and raises an eyebrow.

"I only did my best. As promised," she says.

"Well if nothing else today's debacle scared the bejeebers out of our target. He wants us to take him back to base ASAP. He'll send me his coordinates in the morning. I'll pick him up and bring him back here. I'd appreciate it if you'd cover me from the roofs again."

"And how is he going to contact you?"

"I slipped a comm in his jacket back when he dropped the keyword," Tracer says with a smile. "I still know a few tricks."

Tracer leans back and turns up the volume of the TV. Widowmaker pushes off the doorframe. She knows when she's been dismissed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I'd love to hear what you think good or bad about my work. 
> 
> Please PM me about any corrections grammar, spelling, translation or other problems. 
> 
> 9/25/17 I cut out a scene that was only added to make this chapter longer and I really didn't like. 
> 
> /Widow and Hanzo are bros. 
> 
> Welcome to the year 2078 where text messages look like 2005 chatrooms because I can’t format.  
> Widowmaker sends blank text messages. They terrify everyone. 
> 
> There are a lot of flashbacks coming up in the story. Seriously, if you don’t like flashbacks turn back now. 
> 
> FYI there’s almost no pavement in Rome. It’s all cobblestones all the time.  
> Why yes, I have actually been to Rome. How did you guess?
> 
> Even though the Overwatch Team as Family is highly unrealistic (in canon) I love it and you can pry it out of my cold dead hands. 
> 
> Authentic Italian food is really good but it’s also really different. You may not get what you think you’re getting.
> 
> And so I join the “Make fun of Reaper’s lines” bandwagon. /


	5. Recollections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have a flashback

Widowmaker sits in the dark on a single bed reviewing the results of Athena's search. Her bed is the one of the two closest to the balcony and on the same wall as the doorway. Any intruders will see her last, giving her a few extra moments to escape. Tracer chose the bed closest to the bathroom and opposite of the doorway. She will be the first in the line of fire if there is an attack. Widowmaker suspects it is on purpose.

Tracer opens the bathroom door stepping out in loose shorts and a t-shirt. Her harness is draped across her shoulder. She looks up and lets out a squeak.

Widowmaker smirks. A sniper's habit of hiding in the shadows is a hard one to get rid of, but occasionally it creates amusing situations like this. And Tracer is so much more expressive than any of Talon's goons ever were.

"You just sitting here all creepy like in the dark, luv?" Tracer quips turning on one of the lamps.

"Please. I have been researching the informant. This is his face, no?"

Widowmaker holds out her tablet to Tracer who walks over and takes it. Tracer squints at the screen before making it brighter.

"Pic is a bit blurry, but yeah, that's him alright." Tracer nods.

"Athena ran the image through Overwatch's database. There were a few hits: a talk show host, painter, petty thief, and this-"

"Tanaka Ken, deceased 2079. Suspected of posing as a clairvoyant, selling holistic remedies without a license, possible pyramid scheme connections. Looks like they couldn't get anything to stick though. What, you think he's got an evil twin? Or a good twin in this case?"

"A large number of Talon's top agents are considered deceased by their governments."

"Being dead is the perfect cover for joining the big leagues. I still don't see the problem... Oh. You think it's a trap."

"You don't think it's a little suspicious that a dead man has information your organization needs and he will only meet with an Overwatch agent in person?"

"I think if someone's on the run from Talon they have the right to be a little paranoid."

"One does not just leave Talon," Widowmaker snaps.

"You did," Tracer points out.

"I made a choice between a slow death and a quick one."

Widowmaker never really understood the English expression 'Between a rock and a hard place' until that night.

* * *

_[ABKHAZIA – 7 MONTHS AGO]_

_Widowmaker had been forced to descend to street level. Her left arm and grappling hook were rendered useless by the arrow sticking out of them. As her boots pounded on the pavement, she was forced to admit she was running out of options. She shook her head trying to clear the fog surrounding her thoughts. She needed to think of a plan._

_There was a metro station up ahead. If she could reach it, the confined space might give her the advantage she needed over Tracer and the Archer._

_"Behind you!" a female voice sang out. Not Tracer's. The Archer's?_

_Bullets erupted on the pavement around her. The gunfire did not help her headache. Widowmaker slid behind a parked minivan, taking cover. Her visor showed her a bright pink MEKA drop out of the sky. That was not good. More gunfire tore through the car. Glass shattered. Metal strained. Widowmaker stuck her assault rifle through the broken window and fired blindly. Instead of cries of pain, she heard her bullets hitting a shield._

_"Hey! Watch it!" Tracer shouted._

_"That tickles!" the MEKA pilot said._

_The gunfire stopped. The MEKA must not be able to fire and shield at the same time. Tracer sounded like she was taking refuge near the MEKA. She wouldn't stay there long, the hyperactive hummingbird. Widowmaker's heart started thudding in her chest. She ignored it and added competent doctor to the rapidly growing list of things she wanted right after_ rocket launcher _and_  foot massage _. The sniper pulled out her last venom mine and threw it at the voices._

_"Oh, bollocks."_

_She heard pulse pistols firing and then the whump of compressed gas exploding. Widowmaker took off towards the metro. The lack of coughing told her Tracer, and the MEKA were not in the mine's range. The cloud would obscure their vision for a moment. She zigzagged and fired randomly behind her. A quiet whiz alerted her to another arrow. Widowmaker leaped to the side. The arrow hit the pavement beside her and exploded into metal fragments. She covered her face with her gun. Her body armor absorbed the shards. No permanent damage. Not to say that it didn't hurt. Who is this Archer?_

_"Dance for me Smurf!" the MEKA pilot yelled._

_Bullets filled the air. Pain flared in her skull. Widowmaker darted from cover to cover, her visor giving her the edge she needed to stay a millisecond ahead of the MEKA cannons. The metro entrance was only meters away._

_It was only when her feet hit the sidewalk did it register how much trouble she was in. She had been too busy with Tracer and the MEKA to notice it before, but the block had been completely silent during the shootout. No screams, no sirens, no law enforcement. Besides the occasional car alarm, she hadn't seen hide nor hair of a civilian during the last ten minutes._

_Overwatch must have corralled her into an abandoned district. They had predicted her. (She had become predictable.) Planned for her. Trapped her._ Merde.

_Widowmaker continues running to the metro's underground entrance even though she knew it was useless. Heavy metallic steps and the glow of a barrier field rose out of the stairwell._

_"Justice will be done!" bellowed Reinhardt._

_A blur of blue told her that Tracer was cutting off her right, which meant the Archer was taking her left. There was a slam, and the protests of mechanical joints as the MEKA landed behind her._

_Widowmaker's options flashed through her mind. She could grapple away, and destroy her arm. Death_.  _She could run and be torn apart by the MEKA. Death_.  _She could stand her ground, guaranteeing a swift end._   _Death._

_Instead, she rolled through Reinhardt's shield and spoke as loudly and clearly as she could._

_"I surrender."_

_"Wot," asked Tracer._

_"WHAT!" roared Reinhardt._

_"Can she do that?" the MEKA pilot asked._

_Widowmaker simply raised her hands above her head. Tracer disarmed her with a blink. She appeared on her left with the Widow's Kiss and her bag in hand. Tracer fumbled with her rifle almost dropping it. Widowmaker felt her eye twitch._

_Widowmaker lay on the ground, her hands cuffed behind her back. Reinhardt stood guard as he and Tracer argued with some higher-up about her capture. The MEKA's pilot watched her warily. She also felt the eyes of the Archer on her._

_She forced her jaw to relax when she heard Reinhardt argue that there was "No honor in executing prisoners without a trial." Her gamble had paid off. Thank God_   _for the German's predictable code of morals. She was going to live another day. That was what her life had become, a summation of calculations and risks to survive one more day._

* * *

Presently, Tracer rolls her eyes. Her face shows that she thinks Widowmaker's statement is ridiculous.

"You haven't even talked to him," Tracer says pouting. "You didn't hear his voice. He's the real deal. He wants out, and he's counting on us to do it. So we're going to get him out, trap or not."

" _Vous avez le cerveau d'un sandwich au fromage_ ," Widowmaker mutters. She can feel a headache coming on.

"I'm choosing to take that as a compliment," Tracer says with a tired smile.

Tracer returns to her bed, she sits down and reaches for the lamp. Her hand stops halfway to the lamp's switch and she looks at Widowmaker.

"Er, you know you can change into your PJs, right? Nothing's going to happen. This is a safe house," Tracer says pointing at her battle suit.

"Just keep telling yourself that," Widowmaker scoffs.

Safety is an illusion. She has counted no less than twelve weaknesses in this "safe" house.

A frown flirts across Tracer's face. She shrugs but fingers the straps of her harness before putting it on properly. The lamp clicks off. Tracer pulls up her covers, mostly hiding the blue light from her chest. Widowmaker doesn't miss how Tracer placed her pistols on her nightstand.

Widowmaker straightens her back and lets her thoughts slow. Piece by piece the memory of the lake fills in. It is a summer camp or something similar from her childhood. Amélie spent time here when the pressures of the world were too much, when Gérard was in the hospital when... when she was becoming Widowmaker. Widowmaker spends time here when she is bored or is suppose to be sleeping.

"Hey, Widowmaker?" Tracer's hushed voice calls out.

Mercy.

"Are ya still awake?"

Why?

"Well, I was thinking. Do you want to hear something weird?"

Why me?

"That's not a no. So, all these words have meow in them. Meowing, meowed, meows, obviously, and homeowner. Isn't that weird?"

There's a pause. Widowmaker breathes a sigh of relief.

"Do raccoons have people hands or do people have raccoons hands?"

Widowmaker wonders if there is a way to put Tracer in a sleeper hold without it looking like attempted murder. Maybe she could force a sleeping pill down her throat. No, if they were attacked Tracer would be useless. Half a sleeping pill then.

"I thought of something else. Cats and dogs are mammals, right? They grow inside their mum's belly and have umbilical cords just like humans. I mean they have too. But have you ever seen a dog or cat with a belly button? Or am I just crazy?"

"Shut-up _,_ " Widowmaker says through clenched teeth moving off her bed.

Widowmaker stomps out of the room. Infuriating, stupid, idiotic girl. She goes to the couch, sits down, and returns to her meditation. She certainly does not search for  _dog bellybuttons?_  then erase her browsing history.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N
> 
> Translations
> 
> Merde - shit
> 
> Vous avez le cerveau d'un sandwich au fromage. - You have the brain of a cheese sandwich
> 
> Ma Chére - My Dear
> 
> Please let me know if you spot any mistakes grammar, spelling, translation or otherwise.
> 
> So thank you for reading. I would really appreciate if you leave a comment even if it is something like OMG. If you do feel inclined to be more verbose constructive criticism is welcome or you could just tell me what you liked about my story.
> 
> /So much translating. This was a mistake.
> 
> Place your bets, place your bets, is Lena doing this on purpose or are her meds wearing off?
> 
> How I think Tracer & Winston's friendship works
> 
> Tracer: Do raccoons have people hands or do people have raccoon hands?
> 
> Winston: Well raccoons are from the Carnivora order while humans are from the Primates...
> 
> -cut to three hours later-
> 
> Tracer and Winston are arguing about how to best market shoe-gloves for raccoons
> 
> Dogs and other mammals do have belly buttons they're just really small./
> 
> Edited 2/24/19


	6. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have another flashback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon Typical Violence
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> Hover for Translations

[SAINT MICHAEL HOTEL - ROOFTOPS - 07:06]

The next morning Amélie stands on the hotel's roof watching Rome awaken. Far below cars start to move on the streets, shop owners prepare to open, and beggars set up their signs. The air around her is already hot despite the sun rising only an hour ago.

She brings a synthetic cigarette to her lips. Pearly white teeth hold the plastic tube in place as she twists it on in a practiced movement from forgotten moments before exams and performances. She takes a drag, feeling the vapor seep into her lungs. She exhales, watching the pale 'smoke' twist and climb into the air. The mist catches the sunlight and sparkles pink and orange. The vapor flutters as the air pressure on the roof changes. A shiver runs down her spine.

"Those things will kill you," a gravelly voice announces from behind her.

Widowmaker turns and examines Reaper. Black whips rise off his body and the terracotta tiles. His shotguns are hidden, but he is dressed in his "work" uniform. All that black and dark grey, he'll soon be sweltering in this heat. Reaper lifts his chin, telling her to be at ease. She gives him a small nod, telling him he's not her target today.

Reaper is a heartless mercenary with a chip on his shoulder the size of Europe, but he was one of the few allies she had at Talon. They worked well together. They were similar. Overwatch destroyed their lives; Talon gave them new ones.

Widowmaker tells herself to relax. If Reaper wanted to kill her, she'd already be dead. If he wanted to kill Tracer he wouldn't be here chatting her up. Besides, she would have heard the fight. He never could do anything quietly. Always demanding to be the center of attention with the shotguns and the smoke and the shouting  _Die, die, die._

"Everything does, eventually. Want one?" Amélie asks.

"No."

"Good taste. They don't do anything. Garbage," she says taking another drag from her synthette.

"Consorting with the enemy I see."

"I believe you are familiar with the term 'necessary evil'?" she says with a meaningful look at his outfit.

Reyes says nothing. She feels his glare despite his eyes being hidden in the shadow of his mask.

"I haven't told them anything about you," she says breaking the silence.

"Good."

Widowmaker traded information about Talon to Overwatch in exchange for their discretion about her corporeal state of being. She pumped Soldier 76 full of intelligence, lies, half-truths, and rumors. It took four months and two weeks for her knowledge to become obsolete. While she was incredibly observant, she was a distance killer; a tool unsuited for either the IT department or presidential board meetings.

But she refused to speak about Reaper. She may be taking risks she had never taken before, but she wasn't suicidal.

"Why are you here,  _mon_   _Cher_?" she asks.

Reyes grunts unfolding his arms. He shifts his weight onto his left leg and ticks back his shoulders. All the movements are subtle. She wouldn't have seen them if she didn't know to look. Reaper's posture is familiar to her; he's getting ready to complain.

"Fifteen hours ago I got called in from Ohio, Ohio Widowmaker, to look at this random field agent who was stupid enough to get their brains blown out. Headshot from an impossible angle, 50 caliber, zero collateral damage, not a single other soul touched. Just like you use to do. So I go and look at the body and despite everything I tell Talon this isn't you. Because you're dead.

Because I spent six hours on a waterlogged toilet pretending to be a boat to pull your shredded remains from the stomach of a bull shark. Wouldn't have been able to confirm it was you if it weren't for your chips in its gut."

He pauses.

"I'm here because you're being obvious. You're slipping,  _ma_   _chére_."

 _Merde_.

"Hmm," Amélie says.

She exhales. Some of the 'smoke' blows into Reye's face.

"How did you find me?" she asks.

"... Sombra," he reluctantly growls.

"Ah."

Amélie's phone buzzes. She pulls it out and reads the screen: Incoming Call from  _Guess Who._  She raises and eyebrow and glances at Reyes. He mutters something under his breath. Widowmaker's phone accepts the call on its own accord.

"HEEEEEEY! Good morning,  _Araña_! Long time no see, eh?" Sombra exclaims.

Sombra's face fills Widowmaker's entire screen. Her tone is light but her smile is sharp, and her eyes glint with mischief. Widowmaker holds her phone at eye level. Her face slips back into bored indifference. It is too early for this. She reached her limit for too peppy annoyances three days ago. On the screen Sombra leans in close, practically shoving her nose into the camera on her side.

"My, my, my," Sombra says looking her up and down, "You're looking good girl. Death agrees with you."

Sombra opens her mouth to say something else; a joke, a demand for information, or a backhanded compliment. Widowmaker lets the phone slip between her fingers. The device bounces once on the tiles and then tumbles off the roof. It twinkles as it falls, Sombra's shocked expression grows smaller and smaller until the phone shatters on the sidewalk below. The specially treated Plexiglas is designed to survive small falls, not being chucked off buildings.

"Oops," Widowmaker says flatly. "Ah well.  _C'est la vie_."

A sound escapes from Reyes, something between a snort and a cough.

"She's right. Death does agree with you." Reyes chuckles and then says, "Keep staying dead. I'll be in touch."

Reaper crosses his arms and disappears in a cloud of smoke. After the last whips fade, Amélie lets her lips turn down in a frown.

She sits down and tugs off her boots. Her feet press into the roof tiles. The baked clay should be burning; instead, it feels mildly warm. Amélie rests a hand on her stomach and her brain slowly concludes that this sensation in her gut is a feeling, an emotion, not a sign of illness. She doesn't know which one though. A problem for later.

Amélie sighs and lets her mind take her back to the day Talon betrayed her.

* * *

_[LOCATION CLASSIFIED - TALON BASE "THE WEB" - 9 MONTHS AGO]_

_She had been sitting alone in the D Mess hall taking her glucose injection and reviewing information from her last mission. She watched the videos before her; looking for weaknesses to strengthen, mistakes to correct._

_"Squad Twenty report to Training Room C. Squad Eighteen report to Training Room C," Reaper's voice growled in her earpiece._

_Technically she wasn't supposed to be wearing it outside of assignments but the constant chatter could almost be considered comforting. And it was informative. Information was power, after all. Not that it mattered to her._

_"Squad One go to Training Room C. Squad Sixteen report to Training Room C. Squad Seven report to Training Room C."_

_That was a large number of soldiers to be called in for a training exercise. She shouldn't worry about it. It wasn't her problem and Reaper knew what he was doing._

_"Widowmaker and Squad Fifteen report to Training Room C."_

_Widowmaker stood immediately leaving her tablet. She wasn't scheduled for sparring for another three hours and she had far surpassed the average foot soldier years ago. She ran through her timetable in her mind. She wasn't scheduled for anything. This was odd._

_She met Squad Fifteen in the D-C hallway. The four men acknowledged her with brief eye contact. She outranked them but they didn't need handlers. They took up positions around her, two in front and two behind, as was protocol._   _Their feet hit the ground in unison; a drumbeat of military grade rubber on concrete. The hallway was empty except for the group of five._

_Widowmaker softened her gaze, focusing on her peripheral vision. The mercenary at Eight O'clock had touched his ear twice now, a nervous tick. She could see sweat beading on the back of another's neck. She was acutely aware of how all the soldiers' hands had drifted to their weapons. Fingers glazed gun hilts. Palms floated over stun batons._

_Her instincts screamed at her._  Danger.  _Talon told her to obey her orders. Reaper told her to trust her instincts._

_Widowmaker pirouetted slamming her left heel into the Four O'clock Talon agent's throat. She felt something crack._

_One._

_At the same time she fired her grappling hook, the claw embedded itself in the guard at her Eight. She yanked the line pulling his foot out from under him. Ten and Two turned around, weapons drawn. Four clawed at his crushed trachea before dropping to his knees. Eight's head slammed into the concrete floor. He wouldn't be getting up anytime soon._

_Two_

_Widowmaker let out more line, tossed it into the air, and rolled between the two remaining soldiers. The line looped in the air and landed on the shoulders of Ten. She retracted the grappling hook. The line snapped taut cutting into the mercenary's neck while choking him. Eight was yanked across the floor, the hook still buried in his calf. Ten fumbled his gun and dropped it while trying to loosen his noose._

_Two turned and leveled his gun at her. Widowmaker disarmed him in flash while stabbing him with her baton, stolen from the man currently impersonating a lassoed cow. Two's body trembled under the electric shock and then collapsed to the floor._

_Three._

_Widowmaker stood and pressed Ten's Glock into his temple, keeping herself at an arm's distance. She let the line slacken. Ten sucked in a breath and coughed. He raised his hands in surrender and met her eyes with a hard glare._

" _Why were seven squads called into the Training Room?" Her voice was flat; she could have been reporting elevations or patrol patterns._

_"Reaper's order," he replied._

_Widowmaker tightened the line, not enough to choke him but enough to cut into his flesh. The Talon agent let out a hiss of pain._

_"What was the order?"_

_"Code eighty-eight. Eliminate Operative Widowmaker," he gasped out._

_Widowmaker frowned and then stabbed the baton into his thigh. His muscles locked up and then gave out. He dropped to the floor._

_Four._

_She untangled her grappling hook and wound in the claw with a snap. She dragged the bodies into an adjacent room, which was thankfully empty._

_Her mind spun. Reyes had just ordered her to be killed._

_She paced back and forth in the room trying to sort out what just happened because. Because using a public channel and a massive amount of squads was sloppy and noticeable and not like Reaper at all. This sorry attempt at an execution was not the work of a soldier of Reaper's prowess. No, if Reaper wanted her dead he would have done it in person while she was still disorientated from her latest treatment. It didn't make any sense._

_Unless. Unless, he had made the terrible plan on purpose. A terrible, attention getting plan that would serve as a warning, giving her time, giving her a chance to run. Which meant... a Talon senior officer had ordered her death._

_Her breathing hitched. She was a Talon agent to be used and disposed of as they saw fit. No more, no less. Everyone in the organization had an expiration date. She knew this. So why was her body acting like it had just been shot?_

_She should, had too, follow the command and face whatever awaited her with dignity._

_Widowmaker clenched her hands into fists, hiding trembling fingers. She left the room and marched down the hall, head held high, at an efficient but not rushed pace. She entered the C Building._

_And then turned left, away from the Training Room._

_Or she could run like Hell._

* * *

Amélie opens her eyes feeling the memory's grip loosen. Being so immersed in her thoughts is a vulnerability. She could have been killed several times over. But she hadn't. No harm done, she supposes.

She walks to the edge of the roof and lowers herself down with her grappling hook. She lands on the first balcony, the one connected to the living room, and pauses. Widowmaker stands on the concrete gripping the surface with her toes, feeling the ridges and gouges. The sensation is not pleasant or unpleasant, it just is. How long has it been since she simply observed her surrounding without searching for frailties or advantages?

Widowmaker hums to herself, such pointless thoughts. She slings her boots over her shoulders and enters the safe house. The décor is still hideous but Tracer's jacket and various weapons are sprawled about make the apartment feel more welcoming.

Tracer is in the kitchen watching a newsfeed on her tablet while eating breakfast. Closer inspection reveals Tracer is eating Widowmaker's leftovers, straight out of the Styrofoam container, cold, while standing. Such savagery. Was this woman raised in a barn?

Widowmaker walks closer, peering over Tracer's shoulder; half of the huge portion of noodles and meat is gone.

"Do you plan on leaving anything for the rest of us?" Widowmaker muses.

Tracer inhales sharply and shoves a pulse pistol in Widowmaker's face.

This may have not been her best idea.

Expressions flicker over Tracer's face, so fast if Widowmaker had blinked she would have missed them. 

"Widow? Blimey." Tracer drops the gun and takes a few steps back creating space between them. She laughs. "You almost gave me a heart attack. I didn't hear- I thought- I thought you were still out doing assassin-y stuff."

"Obviously I'm not," Widowmaker says her own heart rate dipping.

Widowmaker feels something wet on her feet. She looks down. There is red sauce between her toes. Tracer dropped the leftovers on the floor. Sauce and noodles exploded out from the clamshell dotting the tiles. Such a pity.

"Well that was one hell of a way to wake up. Nothing like a shot of adrenalin first thing in the morning. Good Lord. Guess I don't need any coffee today," Tracer says mostly to herself.

Widowmaker watches her reaction with curiosity. Tracer takes to walking back and forth behind the island. She runs her fingers through her hair still holding the pistol. The fork she was using to eat is clamped between her teeth. It protrudes from her lips like some bizarre cigar.

So this is what it feels like to be on the other side of their dance. She must say that scaring Tracer is quite... entertaining. Although, next time she'll make sure that both parties are unarmed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> mon Cher - my Dear  
> ma Chére - my Dear  
> Merde - Shit  
> Araña - spider  
> C'est la vie - It is what it is  
> Let me know if you see any errors; grammar, spelling, translation or otherwise.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented
> 
> Shout-out to Blackadder261 who has commented on all my fics so far! I have no idea what I did to capture your attention but I really do appreciate it. You're awesome!
> 
> /Introducing Team Talon, AKA those assholes.
> 
> Don't do drugs kids.
> 
> Widowmaker you are in no position to judge Reaper's outfit.
> 
> I don't think Widowmaker would ever leave Talon willingly where she is now in canon. It would take something rather extreme for her to rebel on her own.
> 
> How about some of that canon typical violence I promised.
> 
> Fight scenes are hard.
> 
> Widowmaker didn't shoot anybody because of the noise it would have made./


	7. Collecting the Package

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or
> 
> We finally meet the informant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vomiting, unsafe decisions around heights, mild gore
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> An early update because I'm planning on changing the average chapter length.

Tracer apologizes for almost shooting Widowmaker saying that she didn't sleep too well and is a mite bit jumpy. She also gives her a lecture about how startling people, especially trained combatants, isn't a good idea or funny. Widowmaker almost laughs in her face and gives Tracer her own lecture on irony, in French.

They leave the safe house and split up. Tracer darts out into the crowding streets in her civilian disguise. Widowmaker takes up her position on the roofs ready to strike at a moment's notice.

"Eyes on the prize. Everything looks clear on my end. Moving in," Tracer says over the line.

"I copy. You're clear to proceed," Widowmaker says seeing the plaza is clear of hostiles.

Tracer greets the Informant warmly. Tanaka wastes no time leading Tracer into an adjacent building. Widowmaker switches her visor on and watches the two heat signatures make their way up the apartment complex. When they appear on the rooftop Widowmaker grapples away. She makes sure to keep enough distance between them so she can see any approaching enemies or complications.

Widowmaker crouches on top of their hotel building for the third time this mission. She watches the blue blur of Tracer and the Informant zigzag across rooftops drawing closer. Tanaka requested that Tracer use her abilities for the last leg of the trip. Widowmaker understands his reasons for being a little paranoid but wonders if he fully understands the side effects of Tracer's 'jumps.'

"Do you think you could get the door for me?" Tracer pants over the comms, "I've kinda got my hands full."

Widowmaker gives the area one last sweep, not forgetting to check behind and above. All clear.

"Of course."

Widowmaker grapples down and opens the double glass doors to the balcony. She steps inside the living room and out of the way as Tracer blinks through the doors. The sniper locks the door and closes the drapes behind her.

Tracer stands in the middle of the living room wheezing. Sweat drips off her face onto the Chronal Accelerator. The orange goggles cause a pang of nostalgia. Her legs are trembling from the toll of running while carrying a full-grown man. The Informant's legs are wrapped around her midsection, and his arms are tight across the Accelerator. His face is pale, and he wears a blank yet horrified expression.

Tracer drops to her hands and knees. Tanaka dismounts and collapses on the floor.

"Haven't done a weighted run in a while," Tracer gasps out, "Shoulda done more squats and less sassing 76."

Tanaka lifts himself off the floor and vomits.

"Whoops, forgotta warn ya about that. Side effects of bending space-time may include: itching, watery eyes, sneezing, nausea, vomiting, tingling sensations, numbness, ah, and much, much more," Tracer peters out and returns to gasping for air.

Tanaka coughs and throws up again. After a moment Tracer uses the couch to pull herself up to a standing position.

"I'll get you a bucket," Tracer says stumbling into the kitchen. "And don't worry about the carpet. Ya can't make it any uglier."

Widowmaker walks back into the room rolling her eyes.

"I've got it _._   _Imbécile_." She places a metal trashcan in front of Tanaka. "And get yourself a water or something. I don't need you passing out due to heat exhaustion."

"Brilliant," Tracer exclaims then drops her head into the kitchen sink and turns on the water on her face.

Widowmaker lets out a sigh and turns her attention to the Informant.

Tanaka sits on his heels hugging the trashcan to his chest. He spits a few times and takes ragged breaths. The man's sunglasses are skewed at an awkward angle across his hairline. He has dressed as a tourist again; kaki shorts and a neutral t-shirt. Widowmaker spies the outline of a bulletproof vest under the shirt. Smart man.

"Here," Widowmaker holds out a gun cloth, "Your face is disgusting."

"Thank you," Tanaka says taking the rag.

Tanaka wipes his face and blows his nose. He throws the cloth into the trashcan. He clears his throat and raises his head.

"So..." The question dies on his lips as he looks at her.

His eyes dart from her blue skin to her unnaturally yellow eyes to the stylized W on her suit and finally rest on the Widow's Kiss. Recognition is swallowed by fear, pure primal terror. So, he knows who she is.

"Oh god," he breathes.

Widowmaker has seen that look of terror before. It is the expression of a man who knows he is marked for death. Apparently, Tanaka believes Widowmaker is going to kill him. He might actually be selling out Talon. Interesting. Tanaka bolts from the floor. He slams his body into the double doors, unaware they had been locked. Metal and glass shake as he roughly opens the lock and Widowmaker suddenly understands what he means to do. Rather than deal with the outcome of being confronted by a Talon assassin he's going to throw himself off the building. Naturally.

Tracer shouts a curse and sprints across the room. She lets out another profanity as Tanaka throws open the doors. The Chronal Accelerator is dark, all its charge used up earlier. Widowmaker does not move from her spot. Chasing after Tanaka would only fuel his fear. Casually she releases the grappling hook from its mount on her arm.

Tanaka rushes the balcony. He pauses for a split second before putting a foot on the railing. Widowmaker's grappling line zips out and wraps around his chest. Tracer reaches the balcony seconds after him. She grabs a side railing perpendicular to the building and swings her body over it. White running shoes hook into the section Tanaka is climbing onto, and Tracer moves directly in front of him.

"Whoa there! The emergency exit is a one-way trip only! Where's the fire?" Tracer quips.

Tanaka sputters out something in Japanese. Widowmaker catches the word Overwatch. Tracer pushes his foot off the rail.

"Overwatch doesn't exist anymore, wink-wink-nudge-nudge, but lots of us are still fighting the good fight! Myself included! Now, why don't we go back inside and I'm sure we can fix whatever is bothering ya," Tracer says climbing over the railing forcing Tanaka back inside.

Widowmaker keeps the line taut as Tracer relocks the doors. The Informant's glances from Tracer to Widowmaker to the safe house's front door to Widowmaker again. Tanaka swallows hard and dissolves into rambling in Japanese, English, and Italian.

Tracer tries to comfort the man while pulling off Widowmaker's grappling hook. Between his blubbering Widowmaker can pick out Tanaka pleading for a quick death, confessing sins, and cursing members of Talon to be eaten by birds and have their remains crapped back onto their cars. (She'll have to remember that one.)

Tracer looks from Tanaka to Widowmaker and back again. Realization dawns on her face.

"Widow, luv, why don't you go take a walk while our guest calms down?" Tracer says.

Widowmaker turns towards the door. She wasn't going to be much help here anyways. She never knew what to do in these situations; too many feelings and snot.

"And leave your rifle here, yeah?" Tracer adds.

Despite Tracer's light tone, this is a command. She's showing Tanaka her authority over her. Tactically it's very clever. She's taking control of the situation, removing Widowmaker, and calming down Tanaka all at once. Perhaps there is a brain underneath all that hair gel.

An image flashes through Widowmaker's mind overwhelming but already fading; like the afterburn of a camera flash. Tracer in a dark uniform sprawled on the floor, dead. A bullet wound between her eyes, brain and blood splatter the wall behind her body.

Widowmaker's heart rate stutters and then returns to normal. She slides her rifle off her shoulders, showing no signs of distress. Gently she places Widow's Kiss on the island. She grabs her overcoat and then leaves the safe room. Behind her Tracer promises Tanaka that no one is going to kill him.

_C'est quoi ce bordel?_

Where had that come from? She doesn't want to kill Tracer. Besides being her only safe transport out of Rome, the reaction form Overwatch would make a Talon's manhunt look like a child's game of hide-and-seek. She clearly remembers the effects of the Slipstream disaster had on the original Overwatch and Gérard's health. Emotions and tensions ran high on both low and high ends of the ranks.

The accident was a bad publicity bomb waiting to go off, Overwatch's relationship to RAF took a solid hit, and organizations around the world began quietly withdrawing their own volunteers. It was essentially a nightmare for the UN. A cloud of depression settled over the base after Oxton's 'death' and certain people with unhealthy coping mechanism reacted poorly. Gérard had to deal with fights between test pilots and Slipstream scientists, and sometimes groups that hadn't even known Oxton directly. The girl was so likable she even got strangers to try and avenge her death.

Considering "Overwatch" now consists of a tight-knit group of experienced military personnel who did all know Tracer personally. Well, she might as well pick out her own burial plot.

Widowmaker frowns and re-examines her thought process. She picks out one sentence and replays it in her mind.

She doesn't want to kill Tracer.

She takes the phrase, examining it from different angles, stressing different syllables, pulling it apart and stitching it back together.

She is a sniper, an assassin. She lives for the thrill of the kill, the charge that surges through her body when she snips her target's lifeline short. It is her purpose.

But there is a short list of people who she'd rather not execute.

Lena "Tracer" Oxton has been a thorn in her side from the beginning. The speedster's one-liners and interference made her job that much more difficult and the thrill that much more thrilling. Tracer had never been an official target of Talon. The speedster wasn't powerful or organized enough to be a true threat, so Widowmaker was never forced to consider her thoughts on the topic. Months ago, if she had been given the order she wouldn't have so much as blinked. Sure the loss of such a skilled opponent would have caused some emotion to ripple through her sea of apathy; she isn't sure which one. But now...

But now Tracer has apparently clawed her way onto one of the most exclusive lists of the century. Damned feelings. She's getting soft.

* * *

"Mr. Tanaka, sir. Can I call you Tanaka? No one is going to hurt you. Honest," Lena says to the man in shock on the couch.

The poor man had been teleported halfway across the city, puked his guts out, and scared to death by Widowmaker all in the past half hour. That was a rough morning by anyone's standards. Tanaka now sits trembling with his head in his hands muttering about poor life choices.

"I don't know what you thought earlier, but Widowmaker doesn't work for Talon anymore. She's an affiliate of Overwatch now!" Lena chirps jumping into a pose; chest out, hands on her hips.

Tanaka doesn't respond. Lena drops her arms and tries again.

"I understand she looks pretty terrifying with the dead eyes and the terrible CGI skin and all, but she's on our side. I promise."

At this Tanaka snaps back to reality.

"On your side? On your side? She doesn't take sides. I thought you were Overwatch! Not, not, whatever this is! Do you even know who she is? What she did?" he asks.

"She was a Talon sniper. Now she's reformed... mostly."

 _"Mostly_?" Tanaka cries.

Lena winces at her mistake. She softens her stance and her voice.

"Look, I know Widowmaker isn't going to win any awards for her bedside manner, but you're her mission. She'll die before the mission fails. So she's not going to hurt you. And I'm her boss, and I'm not going to let her hurt you either."

Tanaka glares at her. He's still angry, but he believes her.

"This is not what I requested," he says his voice low and his eyes closed in frustration.

"I know, I know, and I'm really sorry but we need to move. The longer it takes us to get you out of Rome the longer you'll be in danger."

Tanaka lets out a defeated sigh.

"Could you give me a few minutes to collect myself?" her ask.

"Of course luv."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> C'est quoi ce borde? - What the fuck?
> 
> /Tracer it totally the person to keep talking even if she physically shouldn't.
> 
> Tracer can swear in both Korean and Japanese thanks to her friendship with Hana and Genji. She considers this an important life skill. 
> 
> I imagine Lena was generally well like at the original OW. She strikes me as the type of person who would make an effort to know people's names and be friendly to them, or at least avoid being rude.
> 
> People like to look for someone to blame for a senseless death, Widowmaker is not going to be that someone.
> 
> Also Overwatch would rally and avenge the death of any of its members.
> 
> If someone is on the List that doesn't mean Widowmaker likes them it just means she wants them alive for various reasons. /
> 
> The List for those who are interested in no particular order
> 
> The Talon Board Member who Widowmaker is under
> 
> Reaper
> 
> Sombra*
> 
> Her Handlers
> 
> Gérard
> 
> Tracer
> 
> Hanzo
> 
> Mercy
> 
> The Widowmaker Division Physicians/Doctors
> 
> *Sombra's name is more subconscious as Widowmaker hasn't ever directly thought about how she would feel about killing her


	8. Spontaneous Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spontaneous Failure - the sudden and complete break down of a system due to accumulated stress 
> 
> There's a reason Murphy's Law is in the tags.
> 
> Also, It lives!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> out of control vehicles, dissociation, small dark cold places, being trapped in said place
> 
>  
> 
> A Real Author's Note for Once
> 
> Alright at this point I officially realized my little story had grown and mutated far past the original ten chapter Widowmaker and Tracer Get on Each Other's Nerves and Help Each Other Grow as People Fic into something much bigger.
> 
> So I feel obligated to warn you that the plot is not going to be anywhere as polished or connected as I want it to be. Also the tone is going to change depending on the chapter and I wouldn't classify this as a pure comedy fic anymore.

 

[STREETS OF ROME – 09:12]

Widowmaker keeps her eyes locked straight ahead watching the stone road and buildings flash by. Besides her Tracer sings happily along to some American pop song on the radio. Tanaka sits in the back of the self-driving taxi as far away from her as physically possible. He his head remains bent over his phone, but his eyes keep flickering away from the screen, watching her, making sure she keeps her distance.

Tracer somehow convinced him to get in the car with her. They'll guard him back to the plane, and then Tracer will fly them out before anything else can go wrong. Widowmaker has never been so relieved to see the end of a mission in sight. Not even when Sombra blasted  _You Spin Me Round_  on loop for an hour.

Tracer nudges her arm. Widowmaker turns and is greeted by Tracer's exaggerated smile. The woman is dancing in her seat, swaying with the music. Tracer nudges her again. Widowmaker stares, not knowing what she wants.

"The song's a duet," Tracer explains. Widowmaker's brow furrows in confusion. "I want you to sing it with me!"

"No."

"Oh, come on. It'll be fun!"

" _No_."

"Pleeeeease?"

"I said no," Widowmaker says and turns away.

Tracer admits defeat and turns to face the other passenger.

"What about you Mr. Tanaka? Don't be shy; we won't judge."

Widowmaker scoffs.

"I won't judge," Tracer amends.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Tracer but I rather not," Tanaka says curtly.

The song ends, and Tracer deflates. Widowmaker hears her grumble about how at least Winston would try to sing along. Tracer leans against the window and watches the scenery. After a few moments, she starts switching between the car's touchscreen and her window. Widowmaker closes her eyes in frustration. Can't this girl ever sit still?

"Hold on just a tick," Tracer mutters, "This isn't the Strada Statale."

This statement is followed by more shuffling and movement.

"We're going the wrong way," Tracer says her face scrunched up with worry.

Widowmaker gives in and decides to humor the Annoyance.

"Are you sure you haven't just misread the street signs,  _ma_   _chére_? I know you tend to skip over important details. Besides," she taps the touch screen, "the map shows we are heading in the right direction."

Under her finger, a cartoon version of the taxi follows a purple line out of Rome back to the private airport. Tracer frowns.

"But it's wrong don't you see? We didn't pass that plaza on the way in and the side streets are all wrong. We're going north-east not south-east!" Tracer says getting more and more agitated.

Tracer starts fumbling around searching for her phone.

Widowmaker compares the digital map and the road they are traveling. She doesn't see any obvious problems, but she's used to viewing cities from above.

"Ah-ha! Look! We're way off course," Tracer announces.

Widowmaker looks at Tracer's phone. There is a glaring difference between where the phone and the car show them to be. Tracer starts poking at the taxi's screen attempting to reset their destination.

"What's going on?" Tanaka asks Tracer.

"Now no one panic but we seem to be going the wrong way-"

"What."

"-and I can't seem to override the auto-lorry."

"What?"

"Everything's frozen," Tracer says pushing at the screens and the physical buttons below it. "I can't even make it power off. The whole system is malfunctioning."

"Or hacked," Widowmaker mutters.

"What!"

Tracer stops hitting the screen and looks at Widowmaker. Understanding flashes between them.

"Cover us, I'm going to see if I can activate the manual override," Tracer says producing a multi-tool with a little too much glee. She presses her earpiece, calling headquarters. "Winston, luv, we've been hacked!" Tracer exclaims stabbing a blade of the multi-tool into the seams of the dashboard.

Widowmaker pulls the compacted Widow's Kiss out of her bag, slaps her visor on, and slides into the back seat. She pushes Tanaka into the floorboards and points her rifle out the back window. There is a sinking feeling in her stomach that this might be because she dropped Sombra's call. Hmm. Dropped her call.

"What did you do for Talon?" Widowmaker asks the Informant, not taking her eyes off the street behind them.

"Excuse me?" he stutters from the battered carpet. "I don't think this is the time to discuss my job experience!"

"Talon will only send what is necessary to kill you. I'm asking so I can better know what to expect. What exactly did you do for Talon?"

"I am a licensed psychologist."

"Never pegged Talon for the touchy-feely types," Tracer interrupts from the front seat and quickly follows up with, "I'm focusing, I'm focusing. Yes, Winston, I'm giving you my full undivided attention."

"And what did you  _do_  for Talon?" Widowmaker repeats.

"I worked as a mentalist and interrogator for several years."

"Bloody- Hold on to something!" Tracer yells.

The car swerves violently across multiple lanes of traffic. Tracer slides around the front seats with a mess of wires in her hands. Tanaka pushes himself into the floor and shuts his eyes. Widowmaker braces herself keeping her sight steady. She feels her hair whip around behind her. The sound of muffled horns and angry shouts filter through the windows. Human, Omnic, and AI driven vehicles give way to their car. The taxi continues to veer widely with minimal damage thanks to a combination of luck, practice, and safety technology.

"But..." Widowmaker prods.

"But what? You already know that Talon isn't going to send a SWAT team after a man with little combat training," he snaps.

"You felt it was necessary to have superhuman bodyguards and how many attempts have there been on your life so far? We both know Talon doesn't waste resources. What aren't you telling me,  _Monsieur_  Tanaka?"

The taxi swerves again; this time crossing over onto the other side of the freeway. Tracer lets out a volley of curses and presses stripped ends of wires together forcing the car to do a 180. In a corner view-port of her visor Widowmaker catches a glimpse of a stylized purple skull on the touchscreen.

Sombra. Joy.

More angry horns and curses from outside. Metal grinds on metal as another car kisses the side of the taxi. Tanaka lets out a cry of distress.

"If Winston and I can't get this under control within a minute or so we're going to have to jump! Okay? So just be ready for that!" Tracer announces.

Tanaka looks like he might throw up again. Widowmaker hopes he doesn't. She'll smell the vomit for hours.

"Talon wanted me to analyze this group of soldiers," he squeaks out, "Something had gone horribly wrong. Said that their experimental psychological training had backfired. They wanted me to find out why and fix it." He swallows hard and curses in Italian. "But they lied. Once I started the project. I couldn't continue- I just couldn't- what they did to you, to them-"

Widowmaker freezes and then all but flies across the backseat.

The next moment the side door is open and Tanaka is dangling above the freeway. Widowmaker kneels on the backseat, left foot planted in the floorboards, one hand firmly gripping the roof handle, the other locked on to Tanaka's shirt collar and bulletproof vest.

The Informant screams out profanities and digs his heels into the doorframe. His left-hand latches onto Widowmaker's forearm; his right stops the door from closing on his face.

"What the? Dammit, Widowmaker."

Widowmaker barely hears Tracer's words over the roar of the wind. All that matters is what Tanaka knows about her. The multiple view-ports of her visor pull away so she can see Tanaka's face with her own eyes.

"You have thirty seconds," Widowmaker hisses.

"They were all sleeper agents!" he screams, "You all underwent the same experimental neural rewriting! They started spontaneously failing! Agents vanished overnight, turned on their handlers, even killed themselves! No one knew which one would go next! The file said they were all exterminated!

But Talon still wanted to bring the program back! I wasn't going to be a part of that! So I ran! But then you found me! Talon had found me! But you're not Talon now? But it doesn't matter because you're going to kill me anyways! Ha! Oh god, oh god, oh god."

His voice rings true. His eyes plead with her, not to drop him, to have an ounce of humanity. Widowmaker pulls Tanaka back inside the car. She closes the door, locks it, and sits down.

For months she had been trying to figure out what she had done to make Talon abandon her. Had she not been good enough? Did they suspect her loyalty? Had it all just been some mad power play?

No. In the span of one phone call she had transformed from one of Talon's most prized agents into an expensive liability.

Tanaka pulls out a compact pistol (P380, short range, shaking hands) and points it at her face. She should get that away from him. Her rifle is still on the backboard, only a hairbreadth away, but there's no real reason to shoot him. She'll just redirect his aim into the floor if he fires.

"You're insane, s _hi'ne_ ," Tanaka spits out.

His finger tightens on the trigger. Sloppy gunmanship. You always keep your finger outside the trigger guard until absolutely necessary. At least he remembered to turn the safety off.

"Hey!" Tracer exclaims sticking her body into the backseat between Widowmaker and Tanaka.

"Tracer-" Tanaka says moving so he can see Widowmaker.

"Hey," Tracer says putting her face right in front of the pistol.

"Just-" He leans to the side.

"Ap." Tracer mirrors him blocking his line of sight.

"Move-"

"Nup."

"Let me-"

"Un-un."

"Ms. Tracer, please move your face so I can shoot her," he growls.

"Sorry sir, as much as I want to I can't. Mercy would have my head."

Widowmaker can hear the smile in her voice. Sunlight glints off the piercings in her ear. She shot them off once, took off the entire ear. Tracer recalled obviously, but the earrings didn't return. It was the first time she had seen the Speedster angry. Apparently the earrings were hard to find. 

Tracer turns to face her, still using her body to separate her and Tanaka

"Widowmaker, apologize," Tracer says evenly.

" _Pardon?_ " she asks confused, not as an apology.

"Apologize to Mr. Tanaka for threatening him with third-degree road burn," Tracer clarifies.

Widowmaker looks over Tracer's shoulder to see Tanaka still aiming at her, but his digits are outside the guard this time. He has lost his sunglasses sometime between the safe house and now. The gun still shakes in his hands. His hair is saturated with sweat from heat and fear. He wouldn't last an hour in the field.

" _Peut-être_ ," she pauses mentally readjusting. Her handlers don't speak French. "Perhaps I could have handled that better."

Tracer lets out a small sigh resigning to the fact that is the best she's going to get out of Widowmaker.

"I hope you don't think I'm going to accept that," he says with a definite edge.

"No," Tracer says rolling her eyes. "But I might ask you to put the gun away."

Tanaka frowns but lowers his weapon.

"Are you going to try to kill me again?" he asks.

Widowmaker considers reminding him that when they first met, he begged her to end his life and if she had tried to kill him, he would be quite dead now. Tracer's face tells her not to say any of this.

"No," she says.

"I'm keeping my gun. And I want to sit in the front seat," he demands.

"Sure thing luv, but we're not driving anywhere else right now," Tracer says sounding tired.

Widowmaker blinks and looks around. The taxi is parked in a small back alley. Buildings surround them, blocking out the sun, like an artificial canyon. The back alley is deserted except for the car, trashcans, and a few stray dogs. When did they get off the freeway?

"Right!" Tracer exclaims and claps her hands together, "New plan! We are going to  _walk_  to the train station where we are going to take a train out of Rome. Next Mr. Tanaka will be handed off to another Overwatch agent who will escort him into Switzerland. Any questions?"

"I refuse to spend several hours trapped in an enclosed space with  _her._  Besides, she's blue," Tanaka says.

"Yeah, I might have something for that. Widowmaker, I need you to follow me. Tanaka, sir, just sit tight for a few minutes. Please."

Widowmaker follows Tracer down the alleyway to a backdoor.

There are,  _were,_  more like her. Others who had undergone the same reconditioning. Others who had felt what she had felt. Had they also been sleeper agents? Were some snipers? Gunmen? Had they even been field agents? Could you even recondition an asset to do a desk job? They would have done whatever Talon had requested of them. Filled whatever positions needed to be filled. They owed Talon everything, after all. Didn't they?

"Almost got it. Shop should be empty. Phone said they'd be closed now," Tracer mutters as she picks the lock.

There's a soft click and the door swings open. The women enter the backroom of a deli. White tile lines the floor. An industrial sink near the door is full of pans, skewers, and knives. More blades and cutting boards cover the wooden counter space. Up at the front cheeses and meats are displayed in a glass case. The air smells richly of aging agents and spices.

Widowmaker isn't sure what Tracer is going to accomplish here. All she needs to blend in is her Nanomask. Tanaka will, how did that ridiculous child say, "just have to deal".

Spontaneous failure. What exactly did that entail? In the first few months of hiding, she accepted that some deterioration and errors were probable without her bimonthly tune-ups, but now she is forced to admit things had started to go wrong much sooner. She disobeyed a direct order and willfully deserted her squadron. Plus she faked her death to ensure her survival. Had she already broken down? She didn't feel like it.

And in there lay the problem. She wasn't supposed to feel. She wasn't supposed to disobey orders. She wasn't supposed to be spontaneous about anything. She most certainly wasn't suppose to demand information from a target while threatening them...

She just endangered the life of an asset.

There were over fifty ways Tanaka could have died in that situation alone. A bump in the road, a careless driver,  _Sombra_ , she could have slipped. The possibilities were almost endless. And all because she wanted answers. _What had she been thinking?_  She had just endangered the  _entire_  mission. This outing was a test. The first time she had been allowed anywhere without Soldier 76 breathing down her neck. What is wrong with her?

She had to fix this. She couldn't fix this. She had to try. She is not going back to living in Overwatch's basement. 

_Ella est idiote._

Widowmaker takes the new information, compartmentalizes it, and shoves it to the back of her mind to be reviewed later. Like she should have done in the first place. She turns to Tracer to say something, to make amends, to piece words together in a way that will stall the looming catastrophe.

"Tracer, I-"

She stops when Tracer holds up her hand.

Widowmaker feels relief, she never was good with words, and dread, she isn't even going to get to plead her case. Her verdict has already been decided. How predictable.

Tracer closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose.

"I don't want to hear it. I don't know what happened back there and frankly, right now, I don't care," Tracer says, her breath making large white clouds.

The exasperation in the speedster's voice creates a spark of pride in the rolling mass of shame and dread in Widowmaker's gut. Wait. She can see Tracer's breath and her own much smaller clouds. And the cold. She can feel the cold seeping into her suit. Widowmaker's eyes leave Tracer's face and sweep the new room she is in. Shelves are lined with frozen dairy products, a few pieces of meat hang from the ceiling, and frost coats everything. There is only one exit. They are in the back of a walk-in-freezer. She followed Tracer into a walk-in-freezer. (Since when did she blindly follow anyone anywhere?)

Widowmaker refocuses just in time to hear, "-I can't risk you mucking this up again. Sorry, luv." Tracer does not sound the least bit sorry.

Widowmaker takes off tearing between the rows of shelves towards the exit. She's only gotten in a half a dozen strides when Tracer recalls and flies past her backwards in an effortless streak of blue. Tracer covers the room in a split second, stopping just inside the door. She unholsters a pulse pistol and fires at the door's safety release destroying it. She never did have any finesse.

Tracer starts pulling the door closed. Widowmaker drops out of her sprint and fires her grappling hook. The hook neatly embeds itself into the steel door, right as it slams shut. The room plunges into complete darkness.

Widowmaker follows her line until she feels the hook jutting out of the steel. She yanks it out and lets the line reel in. The black of the room rapidly fades as her enhanced eyes adjust. She steps away and turns on her comm.

"Open the door," Widowmaker demands, her voice deceptively flat.

"Hmmm. Let me think about it," Tracer says, "Nah."

"Consider what you are doing-"

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist. I'll be back before you know it!" Tracer chirps and then ends the call.

Widowmaker redials.

"Tracer."

"Agent Tracer has blocked all calls from Trainee Widowmaker," Athena says formally in her ear.

Widowmaker drops her finger from the comm and clenches her hand into a fist, preparing to drive into the ice-lined walls.

No.

Calm.

She takes a deep and shuttering breath, holds it, and then lets it flow out. She needs to be calm. Widowmaker takes a step back from the door. She needs to prioritize her many, many problems and deal with them accordingly. First, she needs to get out of this freezer. Then later, much later, she will deal with... everything else. She stalks further back into the freezer giving herself distance.

The sniper her rifle, aims, and fires. She shoots three times: once at the door, the wall, and the floor. Each hole is despairingly shallow. The walls of the freezer are easily penetrated; the stone beneath them, not so much.

Widowmaker considers her options. Escaping through the AC unit would only end with the ventilation shaft collapsing at best and her being stuck in a humiliating position at worst. She could try removing the hinges of the door, but it is thick, heavy, and locked. In all likelihood, it would just jam. And then she would have to rely on Tracer's  _ingenuity_. The only option is to go through the door.

Widowmaker carefully reviews her memory of the shop, calculating possible ricochets. She brings the stock to her shoulder, aims, and fires ten times. After the ringing from the last shot fades she walks over and examines her work. She now has a quarter-sized hole in the steel.

She stares at the hole. Useless.

She thumps her head against the door.

Widowmaker lets her bodyweight shift, so she's leaning on her forehead. She expected some sort of punishment for her actions. To have privileges revoked by 76 or solitary confinement or to be put back on dish duty. She had accepted it. But this? To be locked in a meat locker for an unknown amount of time by Tracer of all people. She couldn't even say that this was a punishment. It certainly wasn't protocol. My God, she hopes this isn't protocol. She has no idea what to classify her situation.

Who even cleared this mission? Who on that group of God forsaken imbeciles could have ever thought this was a good idea? Her and Tracer on a  _stealth_  mission for crying out loud.

What even is Overwatch?

This would have never happened back at Talon.

* * *

Spontaneous Failure - the sudden and complete break down of a system due to accumulated stress

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to BlueSey17 for translating anything that was longer than three words.
> 
> Translations
> 
> ma chére - my dear
> 
> Shi'ne - die
> 
> Pardon - pardon / excuse me
> 
> Peut-etre - perhaps
> 
> C'est une idiote - She's an idiot
> 
> As always, let me know if you spot any mistakes spelling, grammar, translation, or otherwise.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented. Comments make my day! Seriously you guys have no idea.
> 
> FYI both chapter lengths and the update schedule are going to change after this. Chapters are going to be longer so the breaks feel organic. Fall semester of college is starting up and I'm going to have less free time to write/edit/post. I'll be switching to a once every two weeks or once a month update from here out.
> 
> /Well, that was all very dramatic. I'd love to hear what you guys thought about that.
> 
> Talon lied. Imagine.
> 
> Tanaka: I may be a liar, a thief, and a cheat but I have standards.
> 
> So the brain washing thing use on Amélie? It work well, really, really well. There's no way that it wasn't perfected before with human trials or used again afterwards.
> 
> Program Widow_Maker 3.0 has crashed. Please stand by.
> 
> Here bimonthly means once every two months. 
> 
> So the idea for the meat locker scene came from me asking the question - What is the worst possible situation Widow could get her self into that hasn't been done yet? I hope it was as much fun to read as it was to write./
> 
> Edited 3/2/18


	9. Freezer Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped Widowmaker only has one choice, to rely on her interpersonal skills. This will go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings - violence, claustrophobia, freezing to death, basically Mei's backstory

_[LOCATION UNKNOWN - ABANDONED WATCHPOINT - 7 MONTHS AGO]_

_This is Overwatch?_

_This is who kept humanity from extinction? This is the organization that Gérard was so proud of? This is what that has been a thorn in Talon's side even after its death?_

_This is_ Overwatch? _Widowmaker had questioned as she sat handcuffed and guarded in the Watchpoint hanger. The rag-tag group that had "captured" her dragged her back to one of the Overwatch bases that hadn't been repurposed by the PETRAS act._

_The flight after her surrender had been vexing. Once they were in the air Tracer had spent a good portion of thirty minutes poking and prodding at her trying to get a reaction. Widowmaker made it abundantly clear she would only speak to whoever was in charge of this madhouse. Eventually, Tracer gave up, and the rest of the group relaxed taking the speedster's word that Widowmaker wasn't a threat._

_The hanger was basically the same as every other hanger Widowmaker had seen. Concrete floors with lines of faded paint, sounds warped and magnified by the space, electric lights humming far above her head. There was only so many ways to make an oversized garage. The main difference was the layer of dust that covered everything except the places from where equipment had been dragged out and the cargo plane she arrived in. The only other disparity was the complete lack of whoever they were supposed to be meeting._

_After an hour past and still no sign of their superiors, the "agents," had forfeited all manners of professionalism._

_Tracer and Reinhardt stood off to her left near the carrier giving the giant ample room to express himself. Widowmaker got the impression Tracer didn't want to separate from the only aircraft she'd flown in a while. They were discussing two rival sports teams, loudly, as Tracer zipped around the hanger doing some light maintenance. Every few minutes Tracer would make a terrible joke, and Reinhardt would explode into laughter._

_Meanwhile, the MEKA pilot, DVa she now remembered, was sprawled out to her right on one of the other benches. She was playing (and insulting?) a handheld gaming system. Until a cowboy (she didn't know any other way to describe this fashion disaster) walked in from the door to the main base and plucked the console out of the child's hands. Something about the gunslinger sparked a distant memory._

_The only person who had taken the capture of a Talon assassin seriously was the man kneeling a few meters away from her. Widowmaker assumed this was the Archer who tagged her. Quite an accomplishment, but she doubted he could do it again when she was in peak condition. He had sharp features, an intricate tattoo on one arm, and wore a garment that she hoped was traditional and not a personal fashion choice. Though he blinked freely, his eyes never left her person. Widowmaker had yet to see him relax his guard. Smart man._

_Widowmaker's eyes wandered over to the hanger's exit. She could escape if she wanted, not easily, but she could do it._

_The MEKA was most problematic; she would take out it's pilot first. Lure her over with a few "friendly" insults and then strike. Arrow shaft through her eye, death would be instantaneous._

_Enraged, Tracer would move in close and use her fists. She would take the death personally. She always did. Her body would prevent the others from open firing. Widowmaker would not return the favor. A few shots from DVa's pistol would thin their numbers._

_The Cowboy's eyes and mannerisms indicated too much alcohol and not enough sleep. Rough living did not do good things to one's athletic abilities.  Shoot at the his gun-hand and knees: chest looks protected. T_ _here was some sort of rift between the Archer the rest of the group. As soon as things start going South, he'll desert. Aim for his chest; legs look artificial. One would go down. Hopefully the Cowboy so her eyes wouldn't have to suffer any longer._

_Tracer would snap out of it and switch back to her pistols. That needed to be prevented. Elbow strike to the Accelerator; use Tracer's panic as an opening for single shot to the head. Prepare for two, possibly three shots from the Archer._

_Then the Crusader would start moving. He was an older soldier not to be manipulated by grief or rage. He would charge, attempt to crush her, to end this quickly. To counter she would stick Tracer's pulse bomb on him and dodge. She would need to take note of the Archer's position beforehand so she can fire on him through the explosion. Eliminate him if he pursues._

_As if aware of her musings the Archer had narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on the bow._

_Yes, she could have done it. But what for?_

_More bodies wouldn't make Talon take her back. Wouldn't help her situation._

_To her right, D. Va had climbed up onto the shoulders of the Cowboy who was trying to shake her off. Tracer zipped over and started chanting_ Fight, fight, fight, fight!

_The Infant and the Cowboy began slapping at each other. Reinhardt pulled out his phone and began calling for bets. The Archer ignored all of this._

" _This is Overwatch?" Widowmaker repeated out loud._

" _I know we don't look like much now but you really should see us in the field," an elderly female voice said from her left._

_She knew that voice. Amélie knew that voice. Ana Amari. Widowmaker killed Ana Amari over ten years ago. Shot her through her own scope, through that damned eye of hers that she was so proud of. Proved her superiority as a sniper. One shot, one kill. Ana Amair was dead. Another ghost walking. Widowmaker killed her. Any more and they could open a haunted house. One shot, one kill? One shot, failure. Failure. She was dead._

" _But I really don't think you're in any condition to judge considering you got KOed by a twelve-year-old," Ana had said._

_Widowmaker didn't say anything._

" _Wow! I didn't know she could make that face!" Tracer exclaimed._

_Widowmaker's world faded to black. She never even felt the needle._

* * *

[DELI FREEZER - PRESENT 09:46]

A burning sensation on Widowmaker's forehead brings her back to the present. She pushes off the door and starts pacing. She pulls out a synthette packet while she rubs at her forehead to increase circulation. As soon as the synthetic cigarette clicks on she starts smoking like a chimney. It will take an hour for the nicotine to get into her system, but the effects will last three times longer than they should.

Shortly after her final physiological enhancement Talon began to realize how expensive it would be to keep a 'living corpse' operational. Her body was in constant need of medical check-ups, her mind and organs required special chemicals and hormones, not to mention that her slowed metabolism couldn't replace damaged cells fast enough. The fact that she was still operating at such a high capacity was something of a medical marvel at this point. Or an atrocity. It depends on who you asked.

Either way, Talon wanted their perfected assassin to last as long as possible, so a solution was proposed. They would put her on ice. Stored and hidden away to be awoken when needed. Cryostasis technology was already in use, after all, it would just need to be modified to fit Talon's needs.

And the meat locker was mimicking those conditions a little bit too perfectly. If she spends too long in here her body will shut down, only this time there won't be an elite team of doctors and scientist waiting to revive her.

No matter how many times she read the schedule, how many times the procedure was explained to her, how many times she woke up months later, going under always unnerved her. She was very aware of how easy it would be to be shoved behind some crates and forgotten. But as long as her talents were needed her future was secured.

But now she's playing by an entirely different set of rules.

And she has no intentions of spending her last moments clawing at the walls like some animal in a trap.

Widowmaker clenches the plastic tube in her teeth. Short of finding some Nitric acid in the shelves she's going to have to ask for... some assistance. Her finger hovers over her earpiece. She's having difficulty thinking of anyone that Tracer would listen to. Eventually, a name comes to mind.

Widowmaker activates her comm.

"Athena, call Winston."

There's a sound in her ear, a synthetic huff. Widowmaker frowns and tags on " _S'il vous plaît."_

This time she hears a dial tone. There's a click; the call is accepted. Widowmaker holds her breath thinking of how best to explain her situation. After a few moments, she realizes that she hasn't heard anyone on the other end.

"Dr. Winston? Are you near the phone?" she asks.

The ape has multiple PhDs. Anyone with such an accomplishment deserves to be called by their proper title.

"Hm? What? Oh! Yes, yes, hold on a second." She hears papers shuffling followed by the padding of giant feet. "Hello, uh, Widowmaker. Er. I didn't expect you to call. How's... the weather?"

"Tracer has locked me inside a walk-in-freezer," she says, no point in pleasantries.

"Has she now," Dr. Winston says with the voice of a long-suffering parent. "And why did she feel doing that was necessary?"

"... We had a disagreement."

"Hmm," he rumbles.

This time the pause is on his end. Widowmaker pulls out another synette while waiting.

She first met the hyper-intelligent gorilla at a medal ceremony for the experimental but highly successful Overwatch field operatives. Gérard had been invited to shake hands and instill fear into the lower level operatives. Amélie had insisted on coming with him. There was no way she was going to miss that train wreck.

When Gérard warned her that a reformed cowboy gang member, a disowned cyborg ninja, and a 180-kilo gorilla with a doctorate would be attending she'd said she couldn't wait to hear the punch line. She stopped laughing after her husband dug up some halo-vids and news reports.

As it turned out she did end up meeting the ape in person. Gérard had been introducing her to his work friends, putting faces to names and grievances, when Dr. Winston had wandered a bit too close to the circle. Introductions were made, hands were shook, and then Monsieur Lacroix had been called away leaving an equally awkward civilian wife and space ape with only each other for company.

Amélie had done her best to ask polite questions about his work and refused to verbalize the many, many animal puns that had rapidly sprung to mind.

She supposes she must have left some kind of impression as Winston was one of the few original OW agents that didn't outright hate her. Though that could just be out of desperation for competent members.

"I assume you are calling because you are in some sort of danger?"

"Tracer did not provide a detailed schedule for her return. Turning into a human popsicle will greatly hinder my ability to contribute to the mission."

"I understand. Let's see what Tracer has to say on the matter."

Dial tone again followed by a click and rapid breathing.

"HeyWinston!Thiskindaisn'tthebesttime,callyoubackinfivemintues?"

Widowmaker can barely make out Tracer's words over the roar of people in the background.

"Tracer, did you lock Widowmaker in a walk-in-freezer?" Winston asks.

"What? Noooooo. Of course not. Where did you hear something like that?"

"From me," Widowmaker snaps.

"Ouch. Didn't peg you as the tattling type, Widow."

"I don't think it is tattling when my life is in danger."

"It's just being stuck in an icebox for a bit. Commander Mom had me patrolling for hours in way worse conditions. So you'll have to zip up your catsuit for once. Oh, boo-hoo... You do know how to use the zipper, right? That would explain so much."

"Lena," Winston says bringing the conversation back on target. "Widowmaker can't create the necessary body heat to function in freezing conditions. Being trapped in such an environment for an extended period of time could be detrimental to her health."

"But I've seen you. We've fought – _What? You got it? Good._ – We've fought in Antarctica before," Tracer says a hint of doubt in her voice now.

"Special heated suit," Widowmaker snaps.

"Oh."

There's a frantic male voice in the background. Tracer's voice becomes fainter, _"Wait. That one? Now?"_ This is followed by a flurry of movement and some yelling.

"Now that we've got that settled I trust you will release Widowmaker and that you two can settle your disagreement without resorting to lockable refrigeration units?" Dr. Winston asks.

"I would love to Big Guy – _ow_ \- I really would - _there you go_ \- but you see we've _just_ gotten on the bullet train and our chap has almost died three times today and I really don't want there to be a fourth."

"Bullet train," Dr. Winston repeats flatly.

"You see what I have been dealing with?" Widowmaker asks.

"Oh, what _you've_ been dealing with?"

"Ladies, ladies!" Winston interrupts, "Please, let's handle this like the responsible, mature agents I know we are. Lena, how long is your trip going to take?"

"Um, at the speed we're going I'd guess about... 133.7 minutes, round trip."

"And you feel it is crucial that you and the target complete this trip now?"

"Yes, 200%. Absolutely. Yes."

"Hmm. Widowmaker, the only other operative we have near you is five hours away. Will you be able to wait for Tracer to return?"

"Short of developing the power of teleportation it appears I do not have a choice."

"Right."

"Again, sorry about all this Big Guy, but I've really got to go, bye!"

There's a click as Tracer ends the call. Silence falls around Widowmaker once more. She lets the empty synette fall from her lips.

The cold wraps around her, settling in like a wraith. She doesn't shiver. She can't. One of the many things her body can no longer do. The chill bites at her fingers, nose, ears, and legs. She's already losing sensation in her feet. Numbness is replacing where her toes and heels should be. Fingers and her aim will go next.

Widowmaker hasn't felt fear in years but the suffocating darkness, the cutting cold, the encroaching numbness stirs a discomfort that isn't too different.

"Uh, Widowmaker?" Dr. Winston asks, "If you would like I can stay on the line."

"Thank you _."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> S'il vous pliat - Please (formal)
> 
> *
> 
> Added location/date stamps for clarity along with other minor edits. Suggestion from my brilliant Beta, 2JRC6
> 
> *
> 
> /I am disappointed in the fandom's lack Tracer & Reinhardt interactions. They're very similar personality wise. Now I really want a fic that's just Reinhardt and Tracer running around getting into trouble being followed by an exasperated Winston and Bridget.
> 
> Widow's plan is good but it isn't flawless. DVa isn't that dumb and Widow doesn't know about McCree's flashbang.
> 
> Soldier 76: We've captured Widowmaker and no you can't kill her.
> 
> Ana: Aw Jack you take the fun out of everything.
> 
> Ana: What about just giving her a mild heart attack?
> 
> 76: ...
> 
> 76: Knock yourself out.
> 
> One thing I love is just how pointlessly extra all the Overwatch characters are. There's just so much to work with.
> 
> *inhale* Widowmaker should be dead. I do not have the time to properly describe how dead Widowmaker should be but it is very. Hence the Cryostasis idea. Widow only gets frozen if there's going to be a six plus month period without any missions for her.
> 
> Commander Mom/Morrison and Commander Dad/Reyes idea. It really fits pre-fall.
> 
> I will drag Widow's suit to heck and back and no one is going to stop me./
> 
> Edited 3/2/18


	10. Crazy Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tanaka will not be leaving the refomred Overwatch a five star review. Also more things go wrong.

[TRAIN LINE FA 8504 - ROMA TO BOLOGNA - PRESENT – 10:45]

"Now keep in mind that this is a terrible analogy. I'm not a-" Tanaka stops his explanation and waves his hand in a circle, "-language professor or something."

Tracer cups her face in her hands and nods attempting to give Ken Tanaka her full attention. The man had refused to speak to her beyond what etiquette required the entire trip to and through the train station. She couldn't blame him at this point.

Once at the station they'd almost missed their train. Technically, that _had_ missed the train, but Tracer had forced her legs to move and ran ahead. She'd stopped the door from locking by letting it close on her arm. The bullet train had been actually pulling away by the time Mr. Tanaka reached it. And Winston calling her because Widowmaker was complaining about having a cold bum hadn't helped.

Now safely on board, Mr. Tanaka was explaining why Tracer should abandon Widowmaker at the nearest corner and get the hell out of Dodge. Actually, he kept not so subtly implying she should just off her. But there was no way Tracer was doing that. She didn't have the authority. Besides, that would ruin the only part of this little venture that hadn't turned into complete rubbish. 

"A normal person's mind is like clay, soft and moldable but still maintains certain core properties. It may be reshaped by certain experiences or dry out but add a little water, and it becomes malleable again."

Tracer nods keeping her eyes on Mr. Tanaka's face.

"The victims' brains that went through the neural rewriting program are like clay that has been shaped and fired. But the new form is brittle and may be unevenly baked. Cracks in the conditioning appear. The agent is brought in for "treatment." The clay is re-shaped and re-fired becoming more brittle, and the process repeats. Potters know to limit the number of times a piece is re-fired. Psychotic terror organizations do not. After a while..."

Tanaka pauses dramatically.

"Failure."

Tracer hums. It was a good presentation. The information was clearly presented and it kept her attention. Four out of five stars. He'll make a great informant. Hit all the right notes to make his case. It was almost good enough to make her forget this is what he did for a living. Persuaded people. 

"So why hasn't she 'ploded yet?" Tracer makes some explosion hand gestures complete with sound effects. "You know, with the shooting and stabbing and murdering everything. She's several months overdue isn't she?"

"That's unclear," Mr. Tanaka says with a frown. "It's possibly the result of more precise tune-ups. It might be interference from her body modifications. It could just be dumb luck. The point remains _she_ is a danger that needs to be..."

Tanaka trails off; his eyes focus on something behind Tracer.

"Speaking of danger," he mutters and then says louder, "Ms. Tracer you have proven Overwatch is exceptionally good at creating chaos. Please attempt to do that in my favor this time." 

Tracer frowns. Mr. Tanaka gets out of his seat and pats his gun holster as he stands. He points over her shoulder.

"Stop them," he orders and then walks briskly down the aisle.

While Tanaka locks himself in the bathroom Tracer examines the train car. An omnic is tending to their child. A couple is reviewing their vacation vids and pics. A group of three is checking tickets. A man is stretched out across several chairs sleeping.

After a moment she sees it. The way the group of three moves, the perfection of their haircuts, how they hold themselves. They're military. And considering how they're systematically checking everyone's face not their ticket, she'd say they're looking for someone. So probably Talon.

She supposes it was too much to ask that her brilliant plan of _Get Mr. Tanaka as far Away From Widowmaker as Humanly Possible_ that she conceived in .0035 seconds would go off without a hitch. Or a multitude of hitches. She's still praying Athena can find a capable agent to meet them in time on the other end. Not that she's bitter or anything.

Tracer stands, pushing down the fatigue creeping into her posture. She's only got four hours of sleep (256 minu-)  _Four Hours_. And is really looking forward to being able to take a nap somewhere without having to make Widowmaker bugger off first so she can have her nightmares in peace.

Tracer rolls her shoulders limbering up. There is a very small chance she can talk them out of this. But that's still better than none.

She takes a moment to get a better look at the gents. Two of the three are male and are wearing suits. The shorter one has red hair and is aggressively leading the check, snatching off people's hats, shouting, and such. A Napoleon complex then. The taller one has a bit of a gut on him and apologizes to the passengers while checking their tickets. A woman fully decked out in Roma gear sullenly trails behind them. She's wearing an SPQR T-shirt, numerous key chains dangle from her hip, the hand of a statue is sticking out of her backpack, and a plastic gladiator helmet over her pompom like hair.

Tracer throws her aviators and jacket into her seat. No sense in trying to blend in now. The best thing she can do is draw attention away from the man hiding in the bathroom. 

"You know, if it takes all three of you to operate the scanner you're probably doing something wrong there," she calls out.

Heads whip around at the sound of her voice. The trio takes in Tracer and her Accelerator in all its reflective lustrous glory.

"I was on vacation," whines Pompom.

"This is squad one, we uh," Chubby swallows hard, "We've haven't found the target but we have run into Tracer. The one from Overwatch. Please advise, over."

Tracer hears faint laughter from the man's comm. 

"What are you doing?" asks Napoleon.

"It's protocol!" protests Chubby.

"Protocol isn't going to help us now," Pompom says.

"So what are the chances we can solve our differences in a calm and orderly discussion?" Tracer asks.

"None," Pompom says flatly.

"That's against regulations," says Chubby.

"A snowball's chance in hell!" says Napoleon.

The redhead pulls out a pair of knuckle-dusters that crackle with electricity and slaps an adhesive his neck. Tracer sees his eyes dilate. Combat drugs. Well, that's just wonderful. She'll have to keep him away from the normies.

Napoleon yells and charges. 

Tracer dodges his opening jab and backhand. She flirts around the tight aisle using the Accelerator to maximize her maneuverability. She lashes out with a few punches. Napoleon easily knocks them aside. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Chubby digging around in his suit jacket. He pulls out a gun. It's too chunky to be a normal pistol. She slips to the side of another jab. A stun gun. She does not want the Accelerator to get hit by that.

Napoleon shifts his weight on to his back foot and launches a kick towards her face. Tracer speeds herself up, ducking under his leg and blinks away. His foot slams down on the train car floor. Napoleon pitches forward due to the lack of resistance. Tracer reappears right in front of him. In the microseconds, it takes for his eyes to widen in surprise Tracer sees Chubby taking aim.

Tracer slams her elbow into Napoleon's nose. There's a crunch, and he reels back. Chubby pulls the trigger. Tracer blinks away again. The prongs of the stun gun bury themselves in Napoleon's side. He locks up but grits out something that sounds accusatory.

Tracer steps up onto a table between two seats, jumps off it, and kicks Chubby square in the head. Napoleon and Chubby collapse to the floor. Tracer lands in front of Pompom.

Between being physically drained and Widowmaker deciding today was a great day to flip out she's done dealing with extra complications.

Pompom looks at the two disabled men, one still twitching, the other sprawled across a row of seats whimpering, and back to Tracer who isn't even out of breath. Pompom raises her hands in surrender.

 "Nuh-uh," she says, "This isn't worth paid over time." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /Very short transition chapter.
> 
> This will be the last update for this month and you guys are going to be happier if you only expect one update next month.
> 
> We are now 60 pages in and over 30,000 words into this story and I've burned through half my buffer... Hoo boy. 
> 
> The results are in and... Tracer was rambling about grammar and raccoon hands on purpose! 
> 
> But no one placed any bets so no one wins./
> 
> Edited 3/2/18


	11. Important Conversations at Unnecessary Volumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yelling

[BOLOGNA, ITALY – BOLOGNA CENTRALE – 11:02]

The police are waiting for them in Bologna as Tracer's fight had gone viral in 192 seconds. Unfortunately, Tracer doubted the hoodlums would stay in police custody for long. Mei Ling-Zhou, truly a gift from above, retrieved Tanaka from the train station without incident while the journalists and interview drones flocked around Tracer.

She gives the press a little show, posing for pictures and using the Accelerator for hat tricks. Her official statement is that she was in Italy for a mini-vacation between adventures when the thugs attacked her. Not an outright lie.

Eventually, the media disperses and commuters of varying ages and nationalities swarm the ex-Overwatch Agent.

"T-R-A-C-E-R. Done. Here you go luv," Tracer says handing the fan back his marker. The teen whips out his phone and checks out the signature on his forehead.

"Awesome. Thank you so much," he says with a wide grin. He turns around and yells at a group of similarly dressed lads, "See, I told you she'd do it!"

Tracer laughs as he runs away. Teens. She takes a pen and guidebook from the next tourist.

"Do you want this addressed to anyone?" she asks.

"Overwatch was a bully and a sham of a peacekeeping organization!" calls out an elderly voice on the edges of the crowd, "We're lucky it got shut down before it got even more out of control!"

Tracer ignores the critic and hands back the signed guidebook with a smile.

The one thing she learned from Jack was responding to a heckler was the worst thing to do. It was better to speak over them or let them run out of steam. And if a person thought yelling at her in public would change anything, there wasn't much she could do that would change their mind.

"Criminals like her should be in jail! Not being treated like a celebrity!"

There's a general chorus of  _Shut up_  and  _Overwatch hater_.

"Hey show some respect for a decorated officer!" a man yells.

"Yeah!" shouts the teen with a freshly signed forehead, "Tracer risked her life fighting the Null Sector! She's a hero! They're all heroes!"

There's a roar of approval from the crowd.

"Alright. Alright!" Tracer shouts motioning for quiet. "Thank you for the support, but I would like to speak now. Ma'am, you have every right to be upset-"

"Overwatch Agents are heroes?" Another voice drowns out her own, "Tell that to Russia. To Venice. To Paris! Overwatch only stepped in when it suited them."

"Venice was Blackwatch's fault."

"Don't go using Blackwatch as a scapegoat!" protest someone in the crowd.

"Some of Overwatch went, bad but Tracer wasn't a part of that."

The mention of Blackwatch sparks microarguments within the crowd of fans. The noise draws more tourists over who either watch or take sides. The crowd is starting to block the entrance of the train station. She needs to stop this before someone gets physical.

"If I could have your attention!" Tracer shouts.

"-billions misplaced-"

"Medical sector made hundreds of advances,"

"-human experimentation-"

_"Los Protectors son heroes! Blackwatch era los villanos!"_

"-fought and died-"

"-only to have the super freaks take over!"

_"-bloccando l'ingresso!"_

A shrill whistle followed by the blast of a bullhorn cuts through the growing noise. A Poliza Municipale Officer stands on the steps of the Central Station. He sounds the bullhorn one more time before bringing it to his lips.

" _Signore e signori si calmi. Si prega di lasciare questa zona,"_ echoes over the piazza.

Police from the photo op are making their way to the crowd calmly asking people to move along.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he repeats in English, "I'm going to ask you to disperse quickly and quietly."

Someone grabs Tracer's shoulder causing her to jump. She turns to see a Municipale standing beside her.

"Thank you, eh," the officer says in accented English. He motions back to the car that holds the arrested operatives from the train. "Thank you, but you should go now."

The crowd is mostly gone aside from the odd hothead or two. The regular flow of foot traffic in and out of the train station is resuming. The sight of a uniformed officer of the law is usually enough to shock people out of their self-righteous fury.

"Right, right." Lena watches the police officer clip his bullhorn to his belt, no longer needing it.

The Municipale pats her arm and gives her a sympathetic look before walking off to join the rest of his squad.

Lena turns her back on the piazza. She pulls her ball cap low hiding her face. Weaving back into the crowd she slides on her bomber jacket and zips it up despite the heat.

[ROME - DELI – PRESENT – 12:32]

By the time Lena finally makes it back to Rome she's seriously considering leaving Widowmaker in the meat locker. Considerations only intensify when she finds some bullets lodged in several cheese wheels.

Lena walks to the front of the deli to a full scope of the place. Standing at the entrance, she can see the entire shop. Directly in front of her is the dining area of the deli. It's a medium-sized room that could seat twenty. Separating the kitchen and dining area is the display counter, which is the same length as the back wall. Beyond the display counter is the kitchen and back door where she came in. On the left wall of the kitchen are the doors to the pantry and walk-in-freezer.

The front looks the same as when she left it aside from the faint smell of gunpowder. It's cute; she decides now that she has the time to take in the rustic brickwork, wooden tables, and rows of handmade spices. It has the same cozy feel that her favorite pubs do. The space would be a lot warmer with the lights on and people in it though.

Her shoes make soft pads on the floor as she returns to the kitchen. Lena takes a moment to steal a few pieces of bread from a cutting board. She can't think straight on an empty stomach and she'll pay them back. Beyond a few ricochet marks in the floor things don't look too bad until she reaches the freezer door.

The door has several holes in the shape of a square, like perforations, on level with the door's handle. The square is only half completed with the holes becoming smaller and more uneven before they disappeared completely.

Lena frowns. Well, at least she knows Widowmaker is still inside. Probably best not to provoke the assassin until she knows what state physically and mentally Widow is in. Lena sighs. This mission looked so much easier on paper. She unlocks the door and throws it open. As a blast of cold air hits her in the face, she realizes she has no idea what to say.

"So um, I'm back!" she shouts.

Tracer waits for a barrage of bullets or French insults, but nothing comes.

"I know you're in there. There's no point in hiding."

Silence answers.

"If you come out we can get a hot beverage of your choosing," she bribes stepping into the freezer.

The light of the Accelerator bathes ice-covered meats and shelves in a glittering glistening blue. Some open packages are piled near the front for easy access. A plastic tarp lies off in the corner. On the floor, a looping path through the shelves has been cut into the ice by a pair of high heels.

Tracer doesn't see Widowmaker anywhere. The Smurf is probably hiding further back in the waiting to ambush her or something. Or she could be a Widow-sickle.

Tracer shakes her head and starts moving deeper into the shelves. Positive thoughts, Trace, positive thoughts.

There's a twang like a guitar string being plucked and one of Tracer's leg is pulled out from under her. She lands hard on her hands and knees. She looks back and sees a thin wire taunt under one ankle. A metallic groan fills the freezer. Tracer's eyes follow the trip wire to a metal shelf stuffed to the gills looming over her. Bollocks.

Top of the self is six-ish meters. Less than 0.6 seconds to crash. No time to stand up. Recall.

Tracer recalls out of the freezer as the shelf crashes to the ground. So much for minimal collateral damage, she muses as a cloud of dust and ice rises into the air.

Suddenly, a stone cold fist smashes into her jaw. Tracer blinks away on instinct. She is not getting jumped again today.

As the blur of the Slipstream fades a smear of purple sharpens in her peripheral vision. Tracer turns to see her attacker, Widowmaker (surprise!), who tackles her with a screech. The moment before impact Tracer decides to do the natural thing when faced with 65 kilos of rage-filled assassin. Run.

Tracer goes limp and rolls with the attack. Letting their momentum take them to the ground she brings her knees to her chest. When her back hits the floor she slams her feet into Widowmaker's midsection. Widowmaker makes a lovely "huherf" and goes flying that-a-way deeper into the kitchen. Tracer lands with her head and shoulders on the floor like a bad breakdancing move.

Tracer scrambles to her feet. She slides her backpack around in front of her. If she can just get to her pistols, then she can... what? Have a Mexican standoff? That won't solve anything. As she fumbles with the zipper an icy hand grabs her ankle. Tracer teleports away, but Widowmaker's grip throws off her blink. Tracer's hands slam into the rim of the industrial sink stopping her face inches away from a number of very sharp and very clean knives. The sound of metal scraping against tile with low swears alerts Tracer to Widowmaker's attempt to get up off the floor. Tracer glances around at the cut-y and stab-y things around her. She does not want to be in this part of the deli.

She pushes off the sink and sprints across the width of the kitchen. Widowmaker whips around to follow. But instead continues sliding in the same direction. Between the tile floor and the slush packed in its treads, her boots can't get enough traction. Widowmaker crashes into the sink shaking all the dishes inside. Tracer vaults over the display counter leaving a streak of blue behind.

Widowmaker pulls herself back up using the sink. Breathing hard Widowmaker surges forward following Tracer's path. The assassin makes it over the counter a split second later. She lands within arms reach of Tracer. Widowmaker reaches for the Accelerator's straps knowing Tracer will be running out of juice soon. But this time Tracer is ready. Tracer whips off her backpack and clocks Widowmaker upside the head.

Widowmaker stumbles back into a display counter. Hitting the glass cover must throw her off balance because her legs slide out from under her and then Widowmaker is sitting on the floor. Widowmaker shakes her head and looks up at Tracer with a curious expression. Tracer waits for her to do something. Her backpack is mostly empty. While getting hit with it might hurt there's no way it could have caused an injury.

"Are you done?" Tracer asks.

Widowmaker lets out a  _Heh_  between gasps. She nods and then leans her head back.

Tracer eases out of her combat stance. Widowmaker stays slumped on the floor breathing hard. Looks like Widowmaker exhausted herself. Just like a toddler. Tracer reshoulders her backpack and glances around. Well, now that's taken care of she has actual work to do.

A few minutes later, Tracer wearily eyes Widowmaker as she uses Google Translate to scratch out a quick note apologizing to the owner for the damages and warning about the freezer door.

Widowmaker now stands propped up between a bookshelf covered in display cheeses and a stack barrels rubbing her arms and muttering to herself. Now that she's not trying to kill her Widowmaker seems... fine? Incredibly pissed off but nothing like back on the freeway where she was just gone. Tracer notes with some satisfaction that she did, in fact, zip-up her catsuit. But Widowmaker is purple again. And it's a deep shade of violet that Tracer has never seen before. That in itself is alarming enough to make her swallow her pride and recognize she needs to fix this.

Tracer finishes counting out a stack of notes that should more than cover the damages and sets them on top of the memo. She walks over to Widowmaker making sure the assassin has plenty of time to notice her approach. As she gets closer, she can hear Widowmaker mumbling that she's off the damn list, whatever that means, and that she would like to strangle Tracer with her own eye stocks. Real encouraging stuff.

"Hey," Tracer says gently reaching out. "We need to go. Get you warmed up and update HQ."

Widowmaker's eyes snap open. Her normal predatory gaze is replaced with one of murderous intent. Tracer has a brief flashback to the one and only time she stole Commander Reyes' lunch.

"No." Widowmaker slaps her hand away. "Oh, no, no, no. _Non_. You do not get to lock me in a  _freezer_  and then think playing nice will just make that all okay!"

Tracer flinches because while neither of them are in body casts right now, she has to admit this has gotten out of hand.

The truth of the matter is she tried to play nice. Sure, she's been obnoxious and dense and generally as annoying as hell, which probably wasn't very safe, but it was the only thing Widowmaker responded too. She kicked her off a building once, and the sniper just looked mildly perturbed for god's sakes. And Tracer wanted a reaction this time. A real show of emotion. Not just a smirk or a sarcastic remark. A proper, actual response.

And she can't say she didn't get one.

"Well I'm sorry, but I only locked you in the icebox because you nearly chucked Tanaka out of the bleedin' cab! You know, the bloke we were supposed to protect? Your job?"

The thing about Widowmaker was she came with rules. Unlike Reaper or Junkrat she didn't randomly slaughter bystanders or destroy buildings. She only cared about her target, and she only injured people if they got in her way. On top of that, they had an agreement. Well, not really an agreement because they never talked about it, but an understanding. Tracer got right up in Widowmaker's face and no one else got hurt. They both treated their fights a bit like a game. It was a game. Until Mondatta died.

"I promised you wouldn't hurt 'im. Because you don't do that. Why did you do that?"

At this Widowmaker has the decency to look ashamed.

"Was the-" Widowmaker starts.

"He's fine by the way. No thanks to you," Tracer says with a wave. And then stops as she realizes Widowmaker's question hadn't been about a who but a  _what_.

"I" Widowmaker pauses and seems to collect herself, straightening her hunched posture and dropping her arms. "My actions were rash and shortsighted. I take full responsibility. It will not happen again."

Tracer is running on way too little sleep for this.

Tracer sucks in air around her teeth and smiles at Widowmaker. "Wow. I mean wow. I get that you think I'm some child but do you really, really think I'm going to swallow that?"

"What are you going on about."

"It was like you were reading a teleprompter. That wasn't an apology. That was the terms and conditions for almost murdering someone."

"So that was not good enough for you?"

"You didn't even say 'I'm sorry!'"

" _Pour l'amour de Dieu_. I'm sorry for endangering the mission. Better?"

Tracer gapes at her before asking, "Is that really all you care about? He's not even a person to you is he?"

Widowmaker scows at her. "Fine. I give up! What do you want from me?"

"I want you to act like a human being for more than five seconds!" Tracer shouts.

Widowmaker's shoulders drop, and she looks surprised. For point two seconds before her face returns to a purple neutral. How did one person have so many blank faces?

" _Je n'ai pas à prendre ça_ ," Widowmaker says turning away.

"Don't you walk away from me!"

Tracer stomps forward as Widowmaker retreats. She feels the Accelerator winding up as its vibrations increase, and in the way space-time gets squishier. Widowmaker must sense the change because she stops and turns and that's when Tracer sees it. As the world begins to slow, Widowmaker takes a step, stumbles, and recovers. But the action is stiff and awkward. In fact, none of Widowmaker's movements have had their usual grace. That's when Tracer realizes if she continues this they'll actually fight. And this time she'll win.

And she wants that. No matter how many times she's tried telling herself different over the past year and a half she still wants to beat Mondatta's killer black and blue.

But she's realized what she wants more is to grab Widowmaker's shoulders and shake and scream at her until she understands what she did and who it effects. How her actions hurt people, who are just trying to live their lives. How she killed a person, who had never done anything to the assassin or the people she worked for other than creating hope for a better tomorrow. Tracer wants her to understand because she doesn't seem to care. And Widowmaker can't understand jack shit if she's in a medically induced coma.

Tracer stops.

"Shite," she says and then turns around.

She tilts her head back and counts the wooden support beams above letting the adrenaline drain out of her system.  She then counts them again as the Accelerator shifts back into standby mode. Her hands still sting from the impact against the frozen concrete. Her jaw throbs were Widowmaker clocked her. Behind her Widowmaker's footsteps stop.

She's an Agent of Overwatch. A role model. A hero. And heroes do not bitch slap the snot out of someone who at a clear disadvantage. Especially, when some of the giant mess they're in is their fault.

Tracer drops her head and turns back to face Widowmaker who has her rifle slung across her front and is watching her cautiously.

"Okay. I don't like you, and you don't like me-"

 _"Quelle_ _révélation._ _"_

"-but I need food and a nap, and you need warm clothes. So if you don't kill me, I'll shut up for the entire ride back to the hotel."

 _"Vous racontez des conneries. Mais que vais-je faire? Voler un Jacuzzi?"_   Widowmaker sighs. _"Merde. J'accepte."_

Tracer nods in response to  _I accept_  and elects to ignore everything else. They've fought enough times that she knows when she's being insulted but now is not the time to focus on that.

Widowmaker pushes off the wall she was leaning on and begins walking towards the back of the Deli. Tracer goes ahead of her and opens the swinging half door. Widowmaker seems to be putting a lot of effort into making her feet go where she wants them too now that she's not filled with unbridled rage. Tracer wonders exactly how much of her legs the assassin can feel.

If on cue, Widowmaker slips again this time falling only a few inches away from Tracer. Tracer reflexively grabs Widowmaker's arm. Widowmaker feels like a block of ice and smells like fake cigarette smoke.

 _"Ne me touchez pas,"_  Widowmaker hisses.

Tracer lets go and steps back holding her hands up and away. Widowmaker stays in her weird crouched pose for a moment then inhales sharply. She pushes off the counter dragging herself back into an upright position. Widowmaker wobbles a bit the before resuming walking towards the back door.

Tracer turns and looks over the Deli. Ice that was tracked out of the freezer is now water smeared across the floor, pieces of ceramic have been fished out of the sink, the ruined food has been gathered up and tossed, the freezer door is marred by bullet holes. The stack of notes left for the owners seems to be an underwhelming compensation.

Tracer sighs and walks out the back door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations 
> 
> Pour l’amour de Dieu– for the love of God  
> Je n'ai pas à prendre ça,– I don’t have to take this  
> Quelle révélation – what a revelation  
> Vous racontez des conneries. Mais que vais-je faire? Voler un Jacuzzi? Merde. J’accepte. - You are speaking bullshit. But what am I going to do? Steal a hot tub? Fuck. I accept.  
> Ne me touchez pas – do not touch me 
> 
> *
> 
> /Closest thing you’ll see to a title drop.
> 
> Remember when I said “I will attempt to follow canon as closely as possible”? with the introduction of Moira that’s no longer possible. You see I plotted out this entire work beginning to end before the release of Doomfist. That’s right, Doomfist who was added to the roster in July 27th. 
> 
> I'm lazy. The story is staying as is. But I’m not throwing the new canon out the window. I just can’t guarantee how much of it will show up.
> 
> A big thank you to everyone who commented!/
> 
> Edited 3/3/18


	12. Thaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Defrost your Widowmaker for five minutes on low to medium power or until snarky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: So I made an assumption when I wrote this chapter that you can treat hypothermia the same way you treat frostbite. It turns you can't. I don't want to tempt fate by giving you guys bad info so below the correct way to treat both.
> 
> Frostbite is when the outer layer of skin of fingers, toes, ears or nose freezes. Skin may turn white, yellow, blue/black; feel like it is burning; and appear hard and waxy. Frostbite is treated by soaking the frozen or discolored areas in WARM water (104-107F, 40-42C) until the extremities thaw. Go to the ER if you have blackened skin or the blood flow won't return.
> 
> Hypothermia is when a person has a dangerously low body temperature. Simply they're freezing to death. Hypothermia is treated by warming the person's core by wrapping them in blankets NOT by putting them in hot water.
> 
> If you have hypothermia you probably also have frostbite. Treat the hypothermia FIRST by raising their core temperature. Warming extremities first can cause shock.

[ROME – ELEVATOR OF SAINT MICHAEL HOTEL – PRESENT 13:14]

 

_“ ‘Hey minster’ the bellman says_

_‘I can only recall and spend some time’ I said_

_So he replies ‘Then how do you manage?’_

_I dodge the blast and apologize for collateral damage”_

[Audio Link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPRVKNc97ws)

 

Tracer sings the jaunty tune under her breath as she and Widowmaker ride the elevator up to their floor. An old song from the 00's had popped into her head, so she decided to supply her own elevator music.

"Its funny, now that I think about it," Tracer starts, "but I don't think I've ever been in a lift with music. Not in hotels, not in Overwatch, not even in different countries. In Japan, they've got music that covers up when you use the loo and sidewalks that work like piano keys, but no music in the lifts.

"But it's such a universal thing. Everyone knows what elevator music is, soft and light, not too popular but not obscure. But I can't think of one real-life example where songs have played while I've been in one. It's so weird."

"Is this the same hotel?" Widowmaker asks eyeing the elevator's grate.

"Yep! Safehouse, sweet safehouse."

Widowmaker frowns and stiffly rubs her hands together.

"This is a security risk and undoubtedly against regulations," Widowmaker says in a tone that is both flat and disapproving, "There is zero chance that our incident on the highway hasn't been noticed by various government agencies if not the media by now. Returning to this location vastly increases chances of Talon finding us."

"Alternately, it could give us an advantage," Tracer says holding up a finger.

Widowmaker just glares at her.

"See the bad guys already know we're in Rome. And they know that we know that they know. So we would have to be absolutely mad to go back. Therefore it will be the last place they'll think to look."

"So our first line of defense is stupidity. Wonderful."

* * *

Amélie turns the hot water on halfway and drops the stopper in the drain. While the tub fills up ( _Dieu merci_  the bathroom has a tub) she turns her attention to the tablet she "borrowed." It takes a few tries and a bit of hot water but she finally gets her fingers to cooperate enough to search for  _News Tracer_ **.** The first result shows Tracer pointing finger guns at the camera with a trainstation clearly in the background. The article is titled,  _Adventure Lena "Tracer" Oxton Takes Out Baddies on Train From Rome._  The time stamp is a few hours ago.  _Merde._

She would like to retract her  _Dieu merci_. This was supposed to be a stealth mission. At least Reaper and Sombra knew what that meant. If anything else goes wrong she might as well hand herself back over to Talon, no force required.

Amélie shuts the tablet in a drawer and turns off the hot water. She lets out a frustrated sigh before picking up the Medkit off the floor. Tracer shoved it at her when they returned along with a bundle of clothes she hadn't had the courage to examine. The kit is well stocked, no doubt because of Dr. Ziegler. It contains plasters, wraps, tape, tourniquets, liquid skin, a pocket mask, along with gloves, tweezers, duct tape, pain meds, sleep aids, scissors, and a box of instant stuffing labeled  _Nanobiotics_  in rough Sharpie.

The pain meds and sleep aids are set aside on the sink. Amélie shakes out an injector, a scrap of paper, and twelve glowing refills out of the cardboard box. She skims over the instructions. Rigid fingers slide a reload tube into the slot. She injects herself twice in the neck and follows that up with half a dose into each calf, contrary to the instructions.

Light worms its way down her legs forming golden spider veins. She frowns. The nanobiotics are moving far too slowly for her liking. Amélie pulls her hair up into a sloppy bun and disrobes. She inhales steeling her nerves. Might as well get on with it. Widowmaker directs her numb legs into the hot water.

At first, she feels nothing other than water moving around her. Then a slight tingling sensation starts in the soles of her feet. Slowly, the tingling becomes a raw burning. Suddenly, red-hot pins and needles stab her toes, heels, and the balls of her feet. Widowmaker hisses in pain. Control her breathing. She can always control her breathing. Long inhale; long exhale.

Widowmaker focuses on her left hand. It is still stiff from the cold but does not hurt. The tile under her fingers is slick with precipitation. The tile dips away and changes to rough grout. She runs her finger along the seam feeling the tiny pockets and bumps. Widowmaker experimentally flexes her toes. Her feet still hurt, but the pain is no longer overwhelming.

She lowers herself into the warm water and grimaces. If she knew working with Overwatch was going to result in so many regular brushes with death she wouldn't have lobbied so hard. To distract herself from her blood rushing around uncomfortably Widowmaker reminisces about her interrogation.

* * *

_[WATCHPOINT: GIBRALTAR – INTERROGATION ROOM – 7 MONTHS AGO]_

_Widowmaker sat relaxed but alert in her chair. Her hands folded neatly before her; the cable of her handcuffs hidden under her fingers. Once the arrowhead had been removed, she had been stitched, stripped, searched, secured, and left to wait._

_She flexed her bare feet beneath her and examined the holding cell. The room was roughly two by two and a half meters in size and suffered from a terrible lack of lighting. It was the cleanest piece of Overwatch property she'd seen all day, and she had to admit the embellishments were rather unique. The walls, floor, and ceiling were covered in raised hexagonal tiles._

_Widowmaker's toe followed the grooves in the floor tracing the shape. It had to be some sort of force absorption or power dampening technology. A holdout from Overwatch's old days of apprehending enhanced criminals instead of licking the UN's boots. Whatever their purpose was they weren't helping her headache._

_She glanced around again. She'd been in here for over thirty minutes, and she was getting bored. She could assume the door to the cell was in front of her meaning the camera should be in the upper left corner. Right about, there. A small glint in the gap between the tiles. Widowmaker tilted her head and gave the glint a knowing smile. A few more minutes passed. Nothing happened. Hopefully, she hadn't just smirked at a wall._

_Finally, Widowmaker heard a faint click. The lights in the room flared to full brightness. Widowmaker scowled and blinked rapidly. The wall opposite of her began peeling itself apart. Tile sliding over tile until just the edges of the wall remained._

_A gorilla entered the room followed by a female soldier._

_This was not who Widowmaker had expected._

_Dr. Winston sat down across from her not bothering with a chair. Captain Fareeha Amari took a seat next to him. Behind them, their door vanished as the wall repaired itself._

_Winston had an air of calm about him. No jerky movements or over exaggerated facial expressions this time. Widowmaker didn't know if it was forced or not. Amari was hiding her feelings under textbook good posture. She was dressed for action, black BDU pants, and a shoulder holster. Widowmaker would bet anything she was armed with a stun pistol on its most painful setting. At least they were taking her seriously._

" _Good afternoon, Captain Amari and," Widowmaker trailed off._

" _Acting Commander Winston," Amari provided._

_So the monkey was running the circus now? Talon knew he was a dreamer trapped in the past but this was something else. It made sense for Amari to be involved somehow. She had experience leading men in combat and a shadow to crawl out of._

" _That's quite a career change," Widowmaker remarked._

" _You've seen the state of the world. Someone had to step up." Dr. Winston's tone was borderline accusatory. "I believe you have a proposition for us?"_

_Widowmaker gave them a tight-lipped smile. "It's quite simple. Talon thinks I'm dead. I wish to continue this notion. You don't turn me over to the appropriate authorities, and in return, I tell you everything I know about my previous employer."_

" _You're asking us to aid and assist an international criminal with strong ties to a terrorist organization," Winston said, "If this is discovered the legal ramifications will be quite severe. Not considering what it will do to Overwatch's reputation."_

_Widowmaker squinted at her two interrogators. She didn't understand why a group of paramilitary vigilantes who frequently acted with authority they didn't have would be concerned about legal issues._

" _Oh," she said after a moment, "You're hoping to be re-legitimized."_

" _The ultimate goal is to have the Petras Act repealed, and Overwatch reinstated as an official peacekeeping organization. Yes," Dr. Winston said._

" _An admirable goal but how long do you think that is going to take? A year? Two?" Widowmaker shook her head. "No. You're talking about mountains of red tape, multiple bureaucracies, and you want to_ repeal _something. That's going to take four to five years minimum."_

" _We are aware of the difficulties ahead of us. I don't see how it's relevant to why you think we need your knowledge," Amari said crossing her arms._

" _Do you know what will happen as soon as your enemies figure out that there are more than three of you?" Widowmaker asked. "That your group is organized? That you have_ goals? _They're going to burn you to the ground and salt the earth so you can never become a real threat._

" _And that's only the big players: Talon, LumériCo, Vishkar. We're not even talking about the wanna be groups trying to make a name for themselves. Trying to be the ones who killed Reinhardt, The Overwatch Crusader. Or Mercy, the Doctor Who Could Reverse Death. Or even Tracer, Overwatch's Beloved Mascot._

" _You're going to need an edge."_

" _And what happens when your information becomes obsolete?" Amari asked, indifferent to her prophecy of doom._

" _Well, I am the best in my field."_

" _We already have a sniper."_

" _I have other skills," Widowmaker protested. "A large part of my job involves reconnaissance. Tactical evaluation of locations. Finding weaknesses in enemy patterns. Strategic positioning. I'm offering... What is the phrase? Another pair of eyes?"_

_Amari went stone still and her brown eyes flashed dangerously. The muscles on the sides of her jaw flexed for a moment before Amari forced herself to relax._

_So this was just some sort of exercise in self-control for the Captain. Lock herself in a room with her mother's "killer" and prove she's the bigger person. Typical._

_Amari returned to her previous impassive expression. Winston looked vaguely disappointed, of course, that could just be his face._

" _Let's assume we do accept your offer," he said. "You've maimed and even killed Overwatch agents before, some close friends of mine." The gorilla reached up and adjusted his glasses; muscles rippled under his fur with the movement. Widowmaker had seen those hands rip cars apart. "How can we trust you?"_

" _You shouldn't," Widowmaker said with a shrug, "But you can trust me to do what is in my best interest."_

" _And what happens when that's no longer helping us?" Amari asked._

" _Then I cooperate as needed and one day you never hear from me again. I'm currently outnumbered ten to one. Despite all evidence to the contrary I'd like to keep all my limbs."_

_Amari leaned back in her chair, trying to judge her sincerity. Dr. Winston stared at her like she was some sort of intricate puzzle._

_Widowmaker did not like this lack of enthusiasm. The plucky group of misfits had been doing rather well so far. Their roster was well balanced. And currently, they didn't have to worry about anyone going off and murdering everyone else. An uncomfortable sensation started in her chest. Widowmaker tightened her calf muscle as she recognized the drawn-out fluttering of an irregular heartbeat. There was a chance that what she had to offer was not enough to secure what she needed._

_Widowmaker let out a bored sigh._

" _Guillermo Portero is going to be taking a vacation on a very extravagant and very vulnerable yacht in two weeks. I think you'll find something of interest at_ _18°51′S 41°56′W_ _. And it's suspected there will be an attack on the Shambali monastery in three months."_

_Now she has their attention._

" _Do what you wish with this information. You know my price for more."_

* * *

_Widowmaker held perfectly still, staring into the light despite the fact that her eyes were watering. Apparently, Overwatch did think she was useful after all because was now being given a general check-up in the med bay. Her medic made a thoughtful noise. The penlight was pulled away to reveal the blond hair and blue eyes of Doctor Ziegler._

_Angela Ziegler is rightfully considered one of the most brilliant minds of the century. She earned her doctorate at the age of 19, pioneered an entirely new branch of medicine, designed her Valkyrie Suit and Caduceus Staff despite having no formal education in such fields._

_She saved Gérard's life three times._

" _Ears and eyes look good. No signs of infection," Ziegler remarked adding something to her tablet._

_She also ultimately doomed it._

_Dr. Ziegler continued talking as she crossed the examination room, "Only major injury is the puncture wound on_   _palmar antebrachial region of left arm. No arterial damage."_

_The doctor grabbed a wheeled stand and passed Solider 76 as she returned. Widowmaker held out her right arm for Dr. Ziegler to slide a blood pressure cuff over. The sequence was different, but the steps were the same. Widowmaker obediently placed the thermometer under her tongue. A heart rate monitor was clipped to her index finger. The pressure cuff started to inflate. Widowmaker softened her gaze letting the familiar sounds and smells wash over her._

_76 had taken up residence near the countertop to her right. His position gave Dr. Ziegler room to work and blocked the only exit of the med bay. The Soldier lacked his signature pulse rifle but made an imposing wall of meat anyways._

_Widowmaker had to give credit to whoever had been put in charge of her. She'd have to be crazy to attack the doctor on her home turf, and Mercy's nanites would allow her to recover from almost any injury. Soldier 76 was a seasoned combatant with both the speed and strength to subdue her in hand-to-hand. Plus SEPs were durable little bastards, and they tended to hold a grudge._

_It was apparent Overwatch was trying not to make the same mistakes twice._

_The computer on the stand beeped. Dr. Zeigler took the thermometer from her and recorded the data._

" _I must admit I was surprised when Winston told me you had defected," Dr. Ziegler said in a faux-conversational tone, "Especially with so few difficulties."_

" _Being heedlessly tossed aside by the organization you dedicated your life to doesn't exactly promote loyalty," Widowmaker said._

_Dr. Ziegler frowned at this. To the side, Widowmaker saw Solider 76's attention snap to her._

_Widowmaker suppressed a smile. Hello, Commander Jack Morrison_. _I see the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated._

_Truthfully, between the unusual amount of attention Reaper placed on the man and the fact that the Strike Commander had not changed his weapon, fighting style, or uniform at all Widowmaker was already 85% certain of the vigilante's identity. But it was still nice to be proven right._

_Dr. Ziegler finished what she was doing on the computer and picked up her tablet again._

" _I'd like to make a quick review your of general condition and options but before I continue would you rather be addressed as Widowmaker or Amélie?" she asked._

" _I have no preference," Widowmaker said._

" _I see."_

_This answer did not please Dr. Ziegler, but she pressed ahead anyway._

" _Frankly Ms. Lacroix, beyond general wear and tear, you suffer from a number of extraordinary issues. Your heart rate is ridiculously low. Your blood pressure seems to have been artificially raised to compensate. Somehow your core temperature is stable but within the range of hypothermia. Your body seems to be in a constant state of extreme peripheral vasoconstriction as a result._

" _Without intervention, your problems: heart palpitations, dizziness, and shortness of breath are only going to get worse. With your permission, I would like to start you on some cardiostimulatories to increase your heart rate. Specifically phosphodiesterase inhibitors most likely."_

" _My permission?" Widowmaker scoffed, "The last time I checked I couldn't even get a stick of gum without approval."_

" _Unlike my colleagues I am a doctor first and a soldier second. I took an oath to respect my patient's wishes even when it runs contrary to my advice."_

" _And if I refuse?"_

" _Then I keep you alive the best I can until your condition deteriorates to the point where an emergency procedure will be needed to save your life, with or without your approval," Dr. Ziegler said without malice._

" _No doubt a costly and risky process that the others will have arguments against," Widowmaker said catching on._

_Dr. Ziegler dropped her tablet in front of her, holding it with both hands. Her fingers tapped out a rhythm. She looked Widowmaker directly in the eye; her face a picture of controlled professionalism._

" _Raising your heart rate, even slightly, to a more natural level is the best thing I can do for you right now. I don't know the extent of your modifications and I doubt you do either. I simply don't have the necessary information or equipment to keep you healthy over an extended period of time. Not when your body is so, so, altered."_

_Inhuman._

* * *

One hot soak later and Amélie feels well, better isn't quite the right word, but definitely warmer and less murderous. The color has returned to her legs, as much as she can expect it to anyways. Her feet are still numb, but she can move them. Something else for Ziegler to use as leverage to run more trials.

Widowmaker supposes she should be grateful. The new drugs were probably the only reason she wasn't in a coma right now. That and spite.

She finds a bathrobe hidden among towels with suspicious black stains. After a moment's hesitation, she slides it on. She reaches up and wipes away the steam on the mirror. Her fingers and toes look much better, but she needs to check her ears for signs of frostbite. Her eyes flicker up. Gold meets gold.

A gasp escapes her lips. Her shocked expression is repeated in the glass. Her irises are still an unnatural color-her face is too hard but with her hair in a bun and her skin flushed to a pallid rose she looks like Before.

Amélie is six, eight, twelve, fifteen, seventeen, twenty-one; fiercely staring at her reflection as she does  _pliés_ ,  _relevés_ , and  _sautés_  again and again and again until she gets it right.

Amélie is fifteen years old and covered in more glitter and stage makeup than she ever has been in her life. Other costumed  _danseurs_  and  _danseuses_  surround her for the Nutcracker Promotional photograph. They stand or kneel knee-to-knee and elbow-to-elbow in fourth position to fit everyone in the frame. The final product captures the prestige and elegance of a group of dancers from _L'E_ _cole_ _de Danse de l'Opéra de Paris._ One of the surplus pictures is pure chaos:  _danseurs_  mock fainting, legs sticking up into the air where heads should be,  _danseuses_  making rude faces, one attempted murder, and Amélie dramatically looking up to the heavens for salvation.

Amélie is seventeen, standing in a blood red full-length dress pressed into Papa's coal black suit. They're giving the family photographer the signature Guillard smirk. Both are posing with a firearm, Amélie with her high-powered hunting rifle and Papa with his custom Olympic class 0.22. The photo was never publicly displayed.

Amélie is looking up at her twenty-year-old self at an awkward angle. She's watching a recording from Gérard's phone. Outside the frame Gérard asks her opinion on a certain choreographer. She gives an off-handed snarky reply. The recording shakes as Gérard laughs. Amélie glances over and huffs in fake frustration at the camera. Her hand engulfs the lens.

Amélie is now Amélie Lacroix, Gérard's twenty-three-year-old wife. The eyes of the world, a camera drone flying above the Overwatch Medal Ceremony, watch her watching Gérard. Her husband steps forward and has the piece of metal pinned to the breast of his suit. Amélie claps politely with the crowd. As Gérard returns to his place beside her, he gives her a look. Amélie squints at him keeping her public smile in place. Gérard pulls her into a kiss.

She hasn't moved. Her reflection stares at her. A mockery of what once was.

Amélie shuts her eyes and turns away. She doesn't want to deal with this. She doesn't want to feel this. She misses the time when her memories didn't hurt. They were just there. Like a vid of the sun, just as blinding as the real thing but without the heat.

Now is not the time for these thoughts.

She needs to direct her attention elsewhere.

Amélie eyes the lump of clothes on the floor. She supposes she will have to leave the bathroom eventually. She reaches down and picks up an article with as little contact as possible.

Tracer has supplied her with two t-shirts, a pair of sweatpants, a sweater, three socks, and a ball cap. Amélie tries on the sweatpants. They're too short. The pants stop halfway down her calves, but they do have pockets. She's missed pockets. The t-shirts are better both are a generic one size fits all. The sweater, which she assumed was tourist merchandise, is actually hand-knitted. She recognizes it.

After Overwatch decided against handing her over to the United Nations Widowmaker spent a lot of time down in her personal high-security subterranean cell. Her cold, cold, subterranean cell. Dr. Ziegler was the first to notice her tight posture and aversion to metal surfaces. A generic sweatshirt with the Overwatch logo was provided. Somehow, Ana Amari caught wind of the situation and soon personalized passive-aggressive gifts began appearing in Widowmaker's drop box. Dr. Ziegler allowed it in hopes that the presents would be therapeutic. She didn't say for whom.

The first time Widowmaker unwrapped a bundle of yarn to discover a boxy yellow sweater endowed with the words  _Hon, Hon, Bodybag._  A baguette and beret had also been included. She assumed the bread and hat were supposed to be insulting, poking fun at French stereotypes, but it was mild compared to what Sombra had put her through. (She considered waiting for the baguette to dry out and use it as a weapon but decided it wasn't worth it.)

She now has a fair sized collection of malice sweaters. Most were subtle spider themed insults or outdated references. One depicted a frog on a unicycle for reasons Widowmaker couldn't fathom. She knows she didn't pack any of these for the mission. Dr. Ziegler must have thrown it in during her pre-release check-up.

The one in her hands is newer and higher quality. It is pure white with the words  _Thug Life_  in purple swirling script. Amélie slides it on.

If everything is going to go to hell in the near future she might as well be warm this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> Dieu merci – thank God
> 
> Merde – shit
> 
> Plié – to bend, barre exercise in which the dancer bends their knees while in first position
> 
> Relevé – to rise, dancer rises onto their toes
> 
> Sauté – to jump
> 
> Danseur – ballet dancer, male
> 
> Danseuses – ballet dancer, female
> 
> L'Ecole de Danse de l'Opéra de Paris – School of Dance of the Opera of Paris
> 
> /A huge thank you to my Betas 2JRC6 and Peasant. Without their feedback this story would be much worse.
> 
> Honestly the most unbelievable part of this chapter is that the elevator got repaired.
> 
> Hopefully I used all that medical jargon right. And all the ballet jargon.
> 
> Alright so canon Widowmaker actually has purple skin, her outfit just makes it look more blue. Sass!Widowmaker is blue cause she's got a little bit more blood moving around./
> 
> Edited 3/3/18  
> Edited 5/12/18


	13. Tête-à-tête

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just lots of chattin' 
> 
> Widowmaker continues to have zero people skills

"A massive explosion rocked Central Italy today as an Helix Security Drone Complex was destroyed," an unseen news anchor comments.

On screen, a mass of burning rubble is shown from an aerial camera. The screen cuts back to an Omnic news anchor in a dress. The destroyed building remains in the background of the Atlas News Studio.

"The complex was located on an undeveloped piece of land just outside of Rome. Fortunately, no casualties have been reported. Officials still have no leads on who or what caused the explosion. But the ex-Overwatch Agent 'Tracer' has been spotted at multiple sites around Rome over the past twenty-four hours. Including Roman train stations.

"Enhanced person sightings have been increasing all over the world in the past few months. Is this ex-agent really on vacation as she claims? Is this the start of something more? Stay tuned as our panel weighs in."

The news report is cut off and replaced with four frowning faces. Lena chews on her lip as Solider 76, Angela, Winston, and Torbjörn glare at her.

"I didn't do it! Honestly! I had no idea anything exploded! I'm telling the truth this time! Scouts Honor!" Lena holds up the three-finger salute using her other hand to keep the bag of frozen peas to her face.

Torbjörn scoffs, "Ya weren't even in the scouts."

"Time Traveler's Honor." She switches to a Spock salute.

"I can confirm that neither Tracer nor Widowmaker was anywhere near the Drone Complex for the duration of their mission," Athena says.

Lena lets out a sigh of relief as her co-worker's expression become less judgmental.

"Regardless," Winston says, "I want you and Widowmaker to maintain a low profile from now on and leave as soon as possible. Something else is going on in Rome, and until we know more, I don't want _anyone_ to engage."

Lena puts on her best 'who me?' face.

Winston clears his throat, "The next item on the agenda is, well, Lena you said something about Widowmaker's mind shattering?"

"Not me," Lena holds up a finger, "the Informant."

"How do we know we can trust this information?" demands Soldier 76.

"I don't think he lied," Lena replies, "But he also seemed like he'd say anything to get Widow six feet under. So, eh."

Solider 76 grunts.

"I'm not a psychologist, as I keep trying to tell you, but the explanation does make sense," Angela says, "If you place the mind under that much stress eventually something is going to give."

Angela sighs and rubs her neck.

"Despite that Widowmaker hasn't been aggressive; for safety reasons I think it best she's separated from the rest of company until we can properly evaluate her mental state."

Angela taps a pen against her jaw and focuses on a point in the distance.

"Obviously, Lena needs to return to base. Someone better matched, Genji most likely, should be sent to escort Widowmaker. We can put her back in the Omega Cell. I suppose," Angela says looking uncomfortable.

"Just knock her out, zip-tie her up, and fly back," 76 orders with a casual hand motion, "That's how we did it in the old days."

"I told ya it was a bad idea to invite a snake into our midst. We could barely trust her when she was sane. I don't like it any more than you do but we need to stop pretending she's anything more than a weapon," Torbjörn says.

"Lacroix is my patient and an affiliate of Overwatch. I will not stand for these types of comments," Angela says.

"Lacroix is gone, Angela. The sooner you accept this the better," 76 says firmly.

"Jack, Angela, please-" Winston interrupts.

"Can we not do this now?" Lena asks.

"She is still a person and despite the danger she poses to our group she will be treated with respect," Angela says.

"Is that you or the guilt talking?" 76 asks.

"If we could return to the-"

"Do you really want to talk about _guilt?_ Jack?"

Lena blows a lock of hair out of her face as the familiar argument runs its course. She glances down at Torb's square. Torbjörn looks at her and shrugs as if to say _You already know my opinion. I don't know why I'm here._ He hops off his stool and walks off screen. A few seconds later a bucket with bolts, gears, washers, and a mop head attached to it in the rough shape of the Weapon Designer's face scoots into view.

"At least I'm not repeating the same mistakes because I can't accept not everyone can be saved."

"Oh, is that what you're doing? Here I thought you were desperately trying to mend your broken pride."

"ENOUGH!" Winston roars.

Properly roars. Roars in only the way a genetically modified gorilla can. Winston's feed shakes from the noise. Angela and 76 freeze. Torbjörn's stand-in loses a bolt becoming nose-less. Lena counts her lucky stars that she wasn't the catalyst for the argument this time.

"Thank you," Winston says after a moment of silence. "Now considering Lena is the only person in immediate danger I would like to hear what she has to say on the matter."

"Weeeeell..."

She considers, seriously considers, telling Angela and Jack everything. How the entire mission went pear-shaped in under thirty seconds. How Widowmaker endangered Tanaka's life at least three times. She thinks about how easy it would be to pin the blame on the ex-Talon agent. That no one would argue too hard against her call. And how Widowmaker deserved some karma in her life.

But it's not like Lena's blameless in this situation either. She's been calling the shots. She chose to push Widowmaker to the end of her rope despite the risks. And then there's the whole issue of trying to explain to Angie why she thought locking Widowmaker in an icebox was a good idea.

She knows Widowmaker hasn't been helping them out of the goodness of her heart, but the sniper had yet to go back on her word. On anything. That had to count for something.

"I'm not going to say Widowmaker isn't dangerous, cause she is, but I don't think she's a danger to us. From what Mr. Tanaka said her mind has been wonky the entire time she's been with us, and she hasn't hurt anyone yet. We're leaving tomorrow at five O'clock sharp. Frankly, if she hasn't killed me because of my jokes by now she won't do it over the next twelve hours."

Off-screen, Torbjörn mutters, "If only."

Winston gives her a grateful smile. For not escalating the situation or choosing a side she doesn't know.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Angela asks, "We can find another way to get everyone back."

"A deadly assassin might try to blow my brains out in the next few hours. Not like that's never happened before," Lena deadpans.

76 snorts. Angela lets out a small sigh but looks relieved. Both wish her luck before logging off leaving Winston and the fake Torb. Lena reaches up to tap the end call button when Winston becomes full screen.

"Lena."

She slowly lowers her hand, delaying the enviable.

"Yeah?" she asks with her signature smile.

Winston takes off his glasses and looks her dead in the eye looking Extremely Disappointed. He's improved it a lot since taking on the title of Acting Commander. She hates having this expression aimed at her.

"You promised you could handle this," he rumbles and then sighs.

Lena runs her fingers through her hair and looks away from the screen. "I know Big Guy. I'm sorry."

"You locked Widowmaker in a walk-in-freezer."

"Not one of my best decisions. No. But my options were kinda limited, and she's ok now."

"The informant said she tried to kill him."

"Well, obviously he's still alive?"

"You've been fighting," he says pointing at the bruise on Lena's chin.

"She started it!" Lena exclaims slapping the peas down on the desk. After a beat, she picks the package back up looking embarrassed. "We both knew that was probably going to happen. It wasn't any worse than a regular sparring match."

Another sigh.

"Be honest with me. Is something wrong with Widowmaker?"

Well, that's the million-pound question; isn't it. But how do you even tell with someone like Widow?

Lena pulls a face. "I'm not sure but I want to talk to her before I pass any judgment about putting her in a psych ward."

"And you really think Widowmaker isn't a danger?"

"I mean, no more than usual," Lena says with a shrug.

Winston stares at her searching her face for something she can't name. They're best friends, always have been, but that doesn't mean they don't disagree sometimes.

"I'm trusting you to get everyone home safely," he says at last.

Lena nods, happy to be back in familiar territory.

It's the least she can do considering part of Widowmaker's outburst was her fault. Admittedly most people wouldn't react well to being locked in a freezer but Lena still thinks attempting to filet her with steak knives was excessive.

But she finally got Widow to do something. She finally got to see some real anger, which she wasn't sure was possible before. It wasn't the reaction she wanted but was probably the best she was going to get. And then there was the issue of Widowmaker "failing." Whether Mr. Tanaka was telling the truth or not whatever happened back in the taxi was flat-out weird.

Tracer doesn't want a repeat of that if she can help it. Mr. Tanaka was talking about Talon right before everything when wrong so that should be avoided. However, walking on eggshells around Widowmaker would probably only make things worse. Keeping up the status quo of being a peppy little annoyance might be her best option. There was something to be said about routine admits chaos.

Lena looks into the bedroom where she can just see the bathroom door.

As long as Widowmaker continues to be semi-reasonable, Lena will try her best to talk things out with her, as much as she can anyways. Violence isn't a good solution to these types of problems.

If Widowmaker does snap? Well, she'll just have to cross that bridge when she gets to it.

Lena blinks at her statement.

That was a little bit heavier than usual for her. In fact, the whole situation was just a bit odder, a little bit stranger than she was used to. It was familiar but just ever so slightly tilted. Lena tightens the straps of her Accelerator, so they dig into her shoulders. Just like something from another timeline.

Lena glances around. The island is still there. She can still feel the stool under her. Did her tablet always have that crack in the screen? Her jacket is still hanging on the wall, right where she left it. She did get a red plate for her sandwiches, not a blue one. Right?

"Lena?" Winston ask.

Everything just the way it should be; she's sure. Positive. Almost certain. Mostly.

But she has to check.

"Winstonwherewereyou-" Lena says in a rush.

"I was born in the Sea of Tranquility, among the stars, on the small satellite christened Luna which hangs in the sky like an ornament, circling the small dust ball I now call home," Winston says with sweeping hand gestures.

Lena lets out a laugh at his theatrics.

The thing most people didn't understand, the thing she didn't like to explain, was when she was lost in the Slipstream she wasn't dead. She just didn't exist. Or more specifically she didn't exist here, now, in this reality.

Instead, she spent some of her time outside of space and time (which was just as confusing as it sounded) and the rest in other timelines. Lena "visited" several thousand timelines easy. And while that had been an interesting and educational experience after a while she needed some way to know she was back in _her_ timeline.

As it turns out even across the vast expanse of parallel universes a walking talking hyper-intelligent gorilla was still an oddity. Even then there was only one Winston who joined Overwatch, saved her life, and was born on the moon.

"Thanks, Big Guy."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Of course!" Lena chirps. Then she softens her tone, "Yeah, I am. It's just been a really weird day."

"Just come back in one piece this time. I don't want to have to retrieve your leg from subspace again. "

"That was a one off!"

Winston's laugh is cut off as the call ends, but Lena feels lighter than she has all day. She messed up, no doubt about it but Tanaka's safe, everyone is alive, and she has a chance to fix things, so it's a good day in her books.

* * *

Widowmaker braces herself to leave the bathroom. What will follow will surely be an _experience_ but she needs her rifle back. Tracer had taken it and undoubtedly thrown it into some corner with dirty laundry or something. She will walk out, retrieve Widow's Kiss, and then enjoy some well-deserved alone time on the balcony.

Widowmaker sets her jaw and marches out of the bathroom. She makes it less than five steps before Tracer's head pops up. The speedster is sitting at the island fooling with her tablet. Her eyes widen as she takes in Widowmaker's appearance: the capris-sweatpants, the bun, the animosity sweater. She grins and opens her mouth.

"Not a word," Widowmaker hisses. "Or should I remind you that you regularly wear leggings that could be used to direct air traffic."

Tracer closes her mouth but keeps the cheeky grin.

"From space."

"I wasn't going to say a thing," Tracer says fooling no one, "It's just I've never seen you dressed down before. "

Widowmaker huffs and continues her search.

"Why do you wear your jumpsuit un-zipped, anyways?"

Reaper asked her the same thing once. She explained that her superiors thought it boosted morale. She hadn't protested. If she overlooked some of their peculiarities, they overlooked some of hers. She didn't mind the suit; it reminded her of a leotard. Besides, it wasn't the only mission outfit she owned.

But none of that mattered now. Did it?

"A moment of hesitation can make all the difference in the field. As I'm sure you are well aware."

A small movement catches her eye, Tracer's hand inching towards her phone.

"Take a picture, lose a hand," Widowmaker promises.

The hand stops. Widowmaker spots her rifle laid out on the couch looking no worse for wear. She picks it up, examines it. Its state is acceptable.

"Find whatcha were looking for?" Tracer asks in that grating alto of hers.

" _Oui_." Widowmaker shoulders her rifle and turns to leave.

"Actually," Tracer says stopping her, "I was hoping you could stay. And we could talk. About what happened during the mission."

Widowmaker looks back over her shoulder. She was hoping to avoid this even though she has no idea to what the alternative would be.

"I made us a cuppa." Tracer holds up a teapot as if this some grand incentive.

Widowmaker relents and sits. Tracer slides her a cup. Black liquid ripples in the pale china. She gives it an experimental sip. It's bitter, not sweet as she expected. Widowmaker takes another drink. The bite is refreshing, but there should be something to balance it. Something solid. A pastry. She hasn't had pastries in a very long time. Can she even eat sweets? They'd probably be catastrophic for her blood sugar. Widowmaker resolves to ask Dr. Ziegler when they get back to the Watchpoint.

Tracer clears her throat. "Guess I'll start then. First off, this has been one of the worst missions I have ever been on. And I was there when we first met Junkrat. I mean you think 'What's a Junkrat? Sounds like packrat. Can't be too threatening.'

"Got blown halfway into the stratosphere and nearly set myself on fire. Lost an eyebrow. I had a date too... So not the worst mission ever but definitely top ten."

Widowmaker wonders if Tracer drew herself another eyebrow with a marker.

"I am sorry about locking you in the freezer. I'm not apologizing for why I did it. I just didn't think you'd get all purple and frozen."

Widowmaker is surprised by the sincerity in her voice.

"But the way I see it is none of this actually has to be recorded on the official mission statement if," Tracer splays her arms out on the countertop, "you tell what the heck happened back in the lorry."

So there it is; what Tracer wants out in the open. Again, another proposition she can't refuse. Widowmaker stares down into her tea, ignoring Tracer who leaned closer during her monolog.

"Did Mr. Tanaka insult you? Was he not following orders? Did he threaten you? I mean not everyone has stellar survival instincts."

Tracer waits a moment. Widowmaker says nothing.

"Come on," she groans, "You have to give me something to work with here." Tracer drops her head into her hands. "Just tell me what you were thinking when you nearly threw Mr. Tanaka out of the bloody car," she grumbles.

"I wasn't," Widowmaker says.

Widowmaker can't remember a single coherent thought during that moment.

"Oh! Okay, ah, that's really unusual for you isn't it? I mean you've always got a plan or fifteen..."

Widowmaker traces the rim of her cup with her finger.

"Do you remember what you were thinking before ya went." Tracer gestures randomly. "Tanaka was talking about his job at Talon. I couldn't quite hear everything."

"He knew about me," Widowmaker says.

The hotel room is silent other than the water rushing through the pipes and Tracer's jittery feet.

"He knew more about me than I was allowed to know."

Back at Talon, she hadn't questioned it. Such knowledge was frivolous, a distraction from her job. But now she wants to know. She wants to know everything that happened every two months during the blackness of her treatment, everything that was done to her body and mind during those hours of unconsciousness. She wonders what price Sombra will put on such information.

"And what did you think about him saying your, er," Tracer trails off.

"Conditioning failing," Widowmaker supplies. She lifts her shoulders a few centimeters and lets them fall, a shrug of microscopic proportions. "He did provide a logical if abridged, explanation for my actions over the past eight months."

"And how did you feel when you learned that?"

Up was down. Left was right. Nothing was making sense. A stinging wound that kept reopening. How dare they discard her like that? After all she had done for them!

Weight descended on her. A broken, useless operative. What is the purpose of a blade that cannot cut? Worthless. Something unlocked in her chest. Talon does not want her back. She would never have to take their orders again. Finally, numbness engulfed her cutting everything off. Alleviating, smothering numbness.

She could think again. But she could only think about her new terrifying reality. Her own mind, her greatest weapon, could be betraying her.

"I don't know," Widowmaker says.

Tracer hums. Absentmindedly she reaches out and takes both teacups. She slides them around on the island in a swirling pattern.

"That's perfectly alright. Your world got turned upside down and you learned you've gotta 'condition.' That's a big thing to take into consideration."

Tracer stops moving the teacups. She lifts her hands off them and looks between the two in confusion. Widowmaker sighs and pulls her hands out of her pockets. She grabs the rims and slides the drinks back to their respective owners. Tracer flashes her a smile.

"Is that all?" Widowmaker asks.

Tracer nods, "Yeah I've got plenty to chew on now." The speedster lifts her cup to her lips and then stops. "Oh. There was one more thing. Back at base, not naming any names, but they were concerned, I mean with the shattering and almost killing an asset and you do hate me-"

"You are afraid I might slit your throat and dump your body in the harbor? Or kill you and turn your Accelerator into a collage?" Widowmaker chuckles humorlessly. "Believe it or not _ma chère_ but I want to return to your precious Overwatch more than you do."

Tracer visibly relaxes.

"But," Widowmaker hisses, "if you blow our cover one more time I will drag your unconscious body back to the plane and fly us back _myself_."

Widowmaker stands and walks off. Behind her Tracer mutters _"Drama Queen"_ and knocks back the rest of her tea.

* * *

Lena waits until she hears the sliding door of the balcony close signifying Widowmaker has gone off to sulk before waking her tablet. She'd had to wait because of the time difference; fortunately, it was only an hour off this time. Lena taps the contact and waits for Athena to encrypt the line. It was going to be so nice to talk to someone who didn't have the emotional intellegnce of a brick wall.

At least when they get back home Widow will stop wearing that butt ugly outfit of hers. They tried to give her a suit but noooo she didn't want to wear Overwatch's colors and hers was _custom_. Of course, she'll just switch back to wearing all black. Honestly, it's like dealing with Emo-Genji all over again.

There's a ping as the call goes through and the other end picks up. Lena perks up as the screen sharpens to show a redheaded woman her age chopping up vegetables.

"Hi, Babe. It's so good to see you," Lena says propping her head up in her hands.

"It's good to see you as well," Emily says focused on the cutting board. " How was work?"

"Oh you know," Lena absentmindedly touches the bruise on her face. "Same old, same old."

"Just another boring day at the office, hmm?" Emily asks chopping up some carrots with a bit more force than necessary. "Sort lots of boxes. Help Winston with more paperwork."

"Well actually," Lena stops and finally puts together that Emily is angry. "You saw the news didn't you."

Emily looks into the camera for the first time since the call started.

"Rome? Really Lena? I understand you can't tell me everything and it's not Numbani or Venice, but Rome? You know I love Rome." Emily scrapes the carrots off the cutting board into a bowl.

"It's not that I wasn't going to tell you-"

"It's that you didn't think I would find out," Emily finishes.

Lena winces because it sounds terrible out loud, but Emily waits for her to explain.

"It was supposed to be a simple mission. In, out, seven hours tops. I took pictures and vids to show you when I got back. It was supposed to be a surprise. Surprise," she says weakly.

Emily sighs and shakes her head. She starts dicing some celery, the tension leaking out of her shoulders.

"Fair idea. Terrible execution," Emily says.

"I'll make it up to you," Lena promises. "I'll bring you something, something you can only get in Rome. They've got all sort of merchandise over here: lanyards, aprons, swim trunks, magnets."

Emily does not look impressed by these options.

"Plastic gladiator helmets, um, I think I saw a Pope bottle opener. Oh! There was a shop that sold miniature versions of the Trevi Fountain."

Emily stops moving at this suggestion.

"How big were theses replications?" Emily asks cautiously.

"Mmm, a fair size." Lena stretches her arms out as if she is holding a large laundry basket to her chest. "I think one would look really nice in the living room."

"We do not need a miniature baroque fountain," Emily says moving closer to the camera. Lowering her voice she says, "Lena, I forbid you from buying a bathtub sized fountain with horses and naked gods on it."

"Oh come on," Lena goads, "Between the model planes and beanbags I think it would really tie the room together."

"Lena. No." Emily growls into the camera. But Lena can see the corner of her lips twitching as she fights back a smile.

With the mood lifted they move on to other topics like Emily's work, what places Lena did get to see, how Winston's doing, sports, and shows until Lena starts yawning so much Emily demands she goes to bed. The call ends and Lena rubs at her eyes, a smile on her face. That was absolutely worth staying up the extra hour.

"You are dating a civilian."

Widowmaker's voice cuts through Lena like a winter gale, chilling her to the core. She says _civilian_ the same way one says _acceptable casualties_.

Lena turns to see Widowmaker leaning in the doorway. Her skin has regained its bluish tint. The grappling mount dangles loosely from Widowmaker's fingers despite the fact that Lena knows she last saw it besides the couch. It's obvious the ex-Talon agent overheard a fair amount of her conversation. Lena mentally corrects her previous statement; Emo-Genji was never this much of a creep.

"That was a private conversation, luv," Lena says turning in her seat to face her.

"Then you should have had it somewhere private," Widowmaker says.

Lena clenches her teeth and exhales slowly. Just when she was thinking Widow was making some progress.

"Is there a reason you're lurking or do you just get your kicks outta being a stalker?" she asks.

Widowmaker glances down at her right arm and then back up.

"Do better," she demands.

"Excuse you." If Widowmaker is talking about Emily, Lena swears to God-

"If you are going to be so determined to drag the God-forsaken corpse of Overwatch out of its grave do better this time," Widowmaker says marching towards her. "Look for more of its 'unfortunate accidents.' Take off your rose-tinted glasses and see where your heroes tried and failed and then buried the evidence."

Widowmaker jabs her Accelerator to emphasize her point. "Do. Better."

"I'm not in charge, " Lena protests, confused.

Widowmaker gives her a hard look. "The recruits like you. The Old Guard trusts you. The New Guard respects you. You have the highest public approval rating out of all of the original members. You are not a leader; you are popular. You have influence. Use it."

At that moment Lena decides two things. She never wants Widowmaker in her personal space again, and this is the most terrifying pep talk she's ever received.

Widowmaker gives Lena one last jab and having said her piece walks away. Lena sits there reeling from the conversational whiplash. She runs her fingers through her hair.

"Well alrightly then," she says to herself, waiting for her mind to stop spinning, "Sure. Why not?"

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always please PM me if you notice any mistakes spelling, grammar, or otherwise. And thank you to everyone who liked, bookmarked, or commented; I love hearing from you guys.
> 
> So first the bad news. There will be no February update because I've run out of buffer and need time to learn how best to allot my time with my new classes.
> 
> The good news is we're only just over 1/3rd into the story. So lots more to come!
> 
> ***
> 
> Torbjörn has seen people's creations turn on them before. Jack is bitter old man who doesn't want Angela to be manipulated by Widow.
> 
> Guess who didn't tell Angela he wasn't dead? 
> 
>  
> 
> Talon Grunt: It improves moral?
> 
> Widowmaker: ...
> 
> Widowmaker: I want a Condo
> 
> Talon Grunt: Done


	14. Estimated Departure Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprises of varying levels of danger

The high pitch beeping of her alarm pulls Lena out the arms of sleep. She fumbles around before finding her phone. She pulls it to her face and turns off the alarm. The clock reads 04:00 (428 minutes 45 seconds since she went to bed). Bleh. Any time before 5 should be illegal. Lena slides her phone under her pillow. A good night's sleep was normally all she needed to bounce back, but she had been sleeping  _hard_. Five more minutes won't hurt.

(2, 198 hours)

What? Go back to sleep brain.

"Oxton," Widowmaker calls out, "If I don't hear movement I will come in there and ensure you are awake."

Git.

Lena throws off her covers and sits up. She doesn't want to find out what Widowmaker would do to make good on her threat, probably dump ice water on her or throw her out the window.

(2, 198 hours past)

Lena rubs the sleep out of her eyes and waits for her brain to make sense of the impression. She always had a good sense of direction and time perception being a test pilot and all, but her exposure to the Slipstream had kicked those senses up to eleven. It had taken her months to be able to put the new sensations into words and even longer to be able to use them on the battlefield. Most of the time it was a useful and lifesaving skill to have, but sometimes... Her sleepy neurons finally decode the impression. She gets stuff like this. It had been 2,198 hours since she last sneezed. What was she supposed to do with that information?

Lena swings her legs off the bed and reaches towards the ceiling, lets her arms drop, and starts towards the shower; immediately she catches her pinky toe on the edge of the nightstand. Lena lets out an oath and hops around holding her foot. The calf of her uninjured leg hits the bed frame. She pinwheels her arms before losing her balance completely, falling back onto her mattress.

"Oof!"

Lena stares up at the dark ceiling. Not how she wanted to start the day. At least she slept well.

* * *

 

Widowmaker listens to Tracer packing up in the bathroom from her seat on the couch. She has been prepared to leave for over an hour. On her tablet she opens a news page she's already read. She only needs to appear busy. She doesn't want to miss Tracer's performance.

As expected, she hears a small crash as something falls off a nightstand. Tracer's phone or charging dock. Within seconds another thud follows, then Tracer appears in the doorframe of the bedroom.

"I don't know what you did-" Tracer starts leaving the bedroom. She immediately hip checks the TV stand and winces in pain."-or how you did it-" She steps directly into a small metal trash can next to the TV. Impressively, Tracer does not lose her balance but stumbles around amusingly. "-but I know you're responsible," Tracer growls having made it to Widowmaker.

Widowmaker doesn't even bother to hide her smile.

"I have no idea what you are talking about _._  Perhaps you should stop running around everywhere. Hmm?"

Was the Underworld's infamous assassin petty enough to mix a sleeping pill into Tracer's tea and then move all the furniture just enough to cause minor injuries? Perish the thought.

* * *

 

"What's the difference between a dirty bus station and a lobster with cleavage?"

It is 04:36 in the morning and Widowmaker is filled with regret.

"One's a crusty bus station the other is a busty crustacean!" Tracer finishes her joke. Which she then follows with ribbing Widowmaker and saying, "Eh? Eh? Did you get it? Did you get it? I think you got it."

The past thirty minutes have been nothing but Tracer making terrible jokes and puns while Widowmaker slowly descended into her personal circle of Hell.

"What time did the man go to the dentist?"

Tracer seems to have taken personal offense to her small bit of revenge. Widowmaker thinks it is because the Annoyance thought apologizing for almost freezing her to death counted for something.

"Tooth-hurty! Because it sounds like two-thirty? No? Alright, next one."

Widowmaker even misses Sombra at this point. At least the hacker could take a joke.

"What do you call a sleepwalking nun?

Oh, thank God _._  She can see the airport up ahead; they are within walking distance now.

"A roaming Catholic!"

Widowmaker unbuckles her seatbelt and pushes open her door as the clip retracts into the car's roof. While the seatbelt alarm politely dings Widowmaker falls out of the car, hitting the ground shoulder first, rolling into the empty road.

"Holy crap, Widow! Wait until I've stopped the car!"

* * *

 

Widowmaker strolls along the sidewalk leading from the parking lots to the airport's entrance. She steps over the chain divider and crosses the drop off lane. Their car is parked right at the front of the airport near the taxis. Tracer is waiting for her with their bags by her feet, shuffling under the streetlights. She's been forced to wear real pants again, and her hair is still fighting the laws of gravity but is less pointy without gel. Her bruise looks worse in the shadows.

"We have a small problem," Tracer says as a greeting.

Widowmaker looks at the airport. The name  _AEROPORTO_ G.B. PASTINE_ is lit up, brightly contrasting with the night sky above it, but the  _Arrival_  and _Departure_  signs are dark. Widowmaker squints and focuses on the windows. There are no lights or movement inside the building.

"You forgot to check if they were open," Widowmaker says.

"I forgot to see if they were open," Tracer says at the same time.

Widowmaker rubs her temples in frustration.

"Now," Tracer says holding up her hands, "we can wait an hour-ish 'till they unlock the doors  _or_  we could do a slightly illegal, unauthorized takeoff and leave now."

"Can you even do that safely? Don't you need the tower?"

"Well, I paid for refueling, oil, and basic maintenance so the VTOL should be ready to go. Between Charlie, Athena, and myself we can probably take off without hitting any other aircraft."

The image of Tracer yanking the yoke to the side as the VTOL buzzes a passenger jet flashes through Widowmaker's mind, but the Eternal City has completely lost its appeal.

"Fine," Widowmaker says, "Let's go."

They cross the parking lot and jump a fence to get onto the tarmac. The lights for the airstrip aren't on yet, so Tracer puts on her Accelerator, using it as an oversized flashlight. The morning air is barely warm but heavy with humidity. Distantly, Widowmaker hears the cries of bugs and birds from the grass beyond the asphalt.

As they reach the VTOL Tracer leads them over to an area where a variety of planes are parked in rows. While Tracer punches in her security code to the ramp, Widowmaker glances around, rolling her shoulder. Her joints are aching; it feels like the cold sank into them. Her little stunt may have been a tad unnecessary.

Tracer clears her throat and waits for Widowmaker to look at her.

"I would like to propose a truce," she says, "for the three and a half hour flight back."

Widowmaker raises an eyebrow.

"I've got some podcasts I can listen to, and you can do your... thing. We leave each other alone, and I get us back to Gibraltar as fast as possible." Tracer holds out her hand.

Widowmaker looks her over. Maybe it's her lack of makeup, maybe making terrible jokes takes more energy than Widowmaker thought, but Tracer looks drained. It's simply too early, and both are too tired of dealing with the other's bullshit.

"Truce," Widowmaker says, walking past her onto the ramp.

Tracer lets her hand drop with a sigh and follows. The women board the aircraft, metal heels and high impact rubber reverberating off the floor. Tracer slings off her duffle bag halfway but then freezes. In the same instant Widowmaker sees two silhouettes among the shadows-they are not alone.

There is a thud and metallic whirl as the ramp of the VTOL locks behind them. Tracer whips out her pistols. Widowmaker moves back as far as she can, Widow's Kiss ready. The internal lights switch on. Ahead of them Reaper and Sombra stand at the other end of the aircraft. Reaper draws his twin shotguns. Sombra looks bored leaning against the back of the co-pilot's seat. Her coat appears to be covered in grey dust.

"Hey, hey, there's no need for that," Sombra says motioning to their guns with a winning smile, "Everybody relax. We're just here to talk."

Sombra spreads her arms open wide, showing she means no harm. Every part of her appearance carefully constructed, from the tilt of her head to the bend of her knee, to radiate honesty and nonaggression. Her real tells are smaller, safely hidden away after years of manipulating tourists and scamming hardware suppliers.

Sombra's feet point at them, not towards the door. Her smudged fingers don't flick in purposeful patterns when she thinks no one is looking. But most important, the safety of her gun is on.

Reaper is simpler to read: His hood and gauntlets have crisp edges and sharp lines. He stands solidly while the faint smell of ash and decaying flesh wafts off him. He's not planning on ghosting anytime soon.

Widowmaker relaxes her grip on her rifle, letting the barrel point at the floor. Whatever these idiots are here for, it's not to fight. Tracer's eyes flicker around, taking Widowmaker's comfortable stance and how Reaper's guns are only trained on her.

"Was this a set-up?" Tracer hisses, her grip tightening on her pistols.

"No. I have no idea why they are here," Widowmaker replies.

"Check out the ego on this one!" Sombra laughs, "Do you really think Talon would waste their top two operatives on you?"

"So then, Talon's here for Widowmaker," Tracer says shifting her weight, preparing to fight.

"Widowmaker is dead. Talon isn't interested in her," Reaper says.

"Well you sure appear to be, and you work for them," Tracer argues.

"Just because they pay me doesn't mean I work for them. I'm a free agent." Reaper drops his shotguns. "Now put those pea shooters away before you hurt yourself."

"And how can I know you won't just blow me away the second I drop my guard?"

"Because I'm not getting paid to kill either of you. And Widowmaker needs you alive." Reaper addressed Widowmaker, "You do need her alive, right?"

"Unfortunately."

Tracer scowls at that, but then her expression becomes more suspicious. "And why do you care what Widowmaker needs?" Tracer asks.

Reaper crosses his arms and looks at Widowmaker; she simply raises an eyebrow. He looks over at Sombra for support.

"Go on. I want to hear this," Sombra says with a grin.

"I owe her," Reaper finally growls.

Tracer glances back at Widowmaker. Widowmaker gives her a small nod.

"What about Miss Night-light over here?" Tracer asks, gesturing at Sombra's glowing implants.

"Sure haven't heard that one before," Sombra says rolling her eyes. "The name's Sombra and I'm not telling you squat. Who knows why I'm here? Who knows why I do anything? But I promise I'm not here to hurt either of you. Not today, anyways."

Tracer seems to find this acceptable. She drops her pistols.

"Your name is Shadow? That's real creative."

"At least my name makes sense. What's a Tracer? That isn't even a real thing."

"What do you two want?" Widowmaker asks cutting through the squabble.

"We need help with a job," Sombra says.

"Do you need me to kill another Senator?" Widowmaker asks.

"What? No! No killing Senators!" Tracer protests.

"Calm down, Speedy. It's just basic data retrieval," Sombra says.

"You need my help for that?" Widowmaker asks unimpressed.

"It turned out to be a three person job," Reaper growls.

Tracer narrows her eyes and gives the intruders good once over. "That explosion on the news was you, wasn't it?"

So, that's why Sombra looks like she fell face first into a coal mine, Widowmaker muses. Now, she sees the same smudges on Reaper's leather as well.

"I'd like to see you prove that," Sombra says, examining some purple screens she'd pulled up. Reaper shifts in a way Widowmaker understands to be a passive-aggressive  _"maybe."_

Tracer huffs and rolls her eyes.

"Well it doesn't matter," she says, "because there is no way we're helping you with anything. Now get out."

"If that's what you really want," Sombra says in a singsong voice. She pulls a bag bulging with objects out of the co-pilot's seat. "But I wouldn't try taking off I were you."

"What did you do to my plane!"

"All  _we_  did was pull the teleporters out of it. You're welcome, by the way."

Sombra drops the bag on the floor. Teleporter bases spill out of the sack.

"They were set to go off once the plane reached a cruising altitude. You guys really should be more generous with your bribes. Anyways, I'm pretty sure we got them all but you know," Sombra shrugs, "mistakes happen."

PATHs, Projected Aperture Transdimensional Hubs, were Vishkar's proudest achievement and closely protected secret, the modern equivalent of Venetian mirrors. Despite having made the invention public years ago, no one had been able to replicate the results. Even Talon, with its sticky fingers and deep pockets, had, and continued to fail at this.

But that didn't mean the flops weren't to be dangerous. Creating a stable wormhole is a delicate process after all.

"If you do take off, give me time to set up my satellites," Sombra says, "I want to see if the plane gets bisected, explodes, or glitches around like a bad 3D model

A set up like this was Talon's way of sending a message; a last ditch effort to kill whoever Overwatch sent to pick up the plane. Which in this case was them. Tracer bites her lip while Widowmaker glares daggers at her idiot pilot.

"Look," Reaper says, "We need another professional, and you need transportation that isn't a death trap. If Widowmaker helps us, we can arrange for a third party to take you wherever."

"I don't-" Tracer stalls.

"Deal." Widowmaker interrupts.

"Alright!" Sombra cheers, "Speedy, we'll pick you up at eight. I promise we won't kill anyone important."

"Now hold on!" Tracer protests, "I'm not just going to let you three roam around unsupervised! I'm coming with you!"

Reaper and Sombra look at Widowmaker.

Realistically, they could subdue her, it would be three on one after all, but it would probably end with one of them injured and something on fire. The time skipping freak's existence laughed in the face of 'reaslistically.'

"It's not going to be worth it to fight her on this," she says.

Reaper sighs.

"Whatever," Sombra says to Tracer, "you do that. The grown-ups need to talk now, bye-bye."

"I'm pretty sure I'm older than you," Tracer scoffs and then disappears in a flash of blue and purple light. The ramp of the VTOL recloses after her.

Reaper and Widowmaker turn to glare at Sombra. The hacker has a self-satisfied smile, and her hand hovers over a virtual keyboard.

"What?" Sombra protests.

"Please tell me you didn't send her to another dimension," Reaper says.

"She's fine," Sombra says with a wave, "I can only jam her harness or make it misfire. Besides, I know she's Azul's ah, how do you say _,_  frenemy."

"Frenemy is an enemy you pretend to be friends with," Reaper corrects, "Normally, so you can stab them in the back later."

"That's stupid."

"English is stupid."

"She is an annoyance but she was my ticket out of this cesspit," Widowmaker says. She can feel a headache coming on.

"An annoyance you get to shoot at," Sombra points out, knowing she is excluded from this category.

Widowmaker sighs; they were getting off topic. She can hear Tracer banging on the plane's hull from outside and making muffled protests.

"Why are you imbeciles  _really_  here?" she asks.

"If you hadn't destroyed the taxi we were going to send you to a secure location and get you away from Overwatch's grubby little hands," Reaper says. "If you wanted."

"Also Gabe wanted another shot at Commander Flat-Ass," Sombra says typing something.

"Did he now?" Widowmaker purrs.

You'd be surprised at how uncomfortable a 187 cm merciless killer who dresses like the grim reaper can look.

"We do need your help with the job," Reaper says quickly.

"There turned out to be a lot more... layers of protection than I anticipated," Sombra says wrinkling her nose. "Unfortunately, we can't go back to the first location. But you know, learn from your mistakes and all that."

"And if I say no?"

"To the job or the extraction?"

"The job."

"Then I have no reason to be here and Reaps tries to get both of you out of Italy without Overwatch or Talon or his enemies or your enemies or whoever else noticing. Nothing against you, Gabe, but I wouldn't want to be apart of that clusterfuck."

Reaper growls but doesn't argue.

Widowmaker weighs her options. Despite all his talents she doesn't trust Reyes to get them out of Italy quietly. Because they're "friends", Sombra will hold up her end of the bargain as long as she does her part. It's not like she'd be going anywhere soon if she waited for Overwatch's pick up, and continued exposure to Tracer isn't going to be good for either of them, truce or no truce.

But there is the issue of her stability. She feels, well, she feels like she always does: generally indifferent. But she hasn't had any more issues other than the episode with her reflection, and even that only lasted seconds.

Her train of thought pauses when she hears a peculiar thumping followed by the squeaking of flesh on glass. The group turns to see Tracer, Accelerator still locked, has managed to crawl onto the cockpit windshield.

"Huh," Reaper says, sounding mildly impressed.

"Now this is prime blackmail material right here," Sombra says framing the scene with her fingers. She starts taking pictures.

Widowmaker looks over Sombra and Reaper. Maybe doing a job with a team she knows how to work with will remind her of how things are supposed to go. Set her right. This might be just what she needs.

There's more squeaking as Tracer repositions herself so that she's hugging the glass. She cups her face and squints into the plane. Widowmaker rolls her eyes and waves.

"Fine. Where do we start?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by 2JRC6  
> 4/21/18 Edited, Betaed by Dot
> 
> Translations
> 
> Chica – girl  
> Azul - blue
> 
> AN
> 
> Clean up edits made to chapters 1-12. Nothing major. 
> 
> Chapter will be posted on FFnet when the site comes back up. 
> 
> /I can finally stop feeling guilty about Reaper and Sombra's names being in the tags.
> 
> Widowmaker: Unfortunately.
> 
> Tracer: Your face is unfortunate.
> 
> As a native English speaker I felt cheated when I discovered other languages don't have spelling bees.
> 
> Overwatch is fake. Not nearly enough of the characters being offended/befuddled by the way other countries do things.
> 
> Why is there ice in the tea? You call that a car? That condiment does not go on that food. Why is the beer warm? What holiday is that? Why is your milk in bags? Where are your bidets? That is NOT how you eat that. /


	15. Entering and Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Widowmaker has a grand old time. Tracer, not so much.

Tracer sits in the far back of a van surrounded by crates of computer equipment, boxed supplies, and plastic explosives. Sombra occupies the wheel-less driverseat playing with multiple screens and occasionally yells at drivers despite the tinted soundproof glass. Reaper and Widowmaker are sitting further ahead of Tracer, reviewing floating schematics. They discuss plans in low tones. Every so often, Sombra shouts a suggestion back at them. The mercenary and hacker had cleaned up and Widowmaker has changed back into her catsuit. The assassin seems to be slipping back into old habits faster than Tracer would like.

She types out an upbeat message to Winston that's at odds with the butterflies in her stomach. Tracer tells him the VTOL has been compromised and she needs alternate transport. As soon as the message goes out her phone freezes up. She pokes at the screen in frustration when a block of blue text appears.

_I must inform you this course of action is ill-advised._

Athena, Tracer recognizes with a bittersweet smile. Considering the amount of trouble she normally got herself into the poor girl must be worried half to death.

_you gonna blow the whistle on me?_

_Unfortunately, that is no longer an option._

_The Street Urchin uploaded a highly specialized virus into my distal systems. I cannot inform Overwatch members or allies about the appearance of [Retracted] and [Retracted]. Nor can I repeat their plans._

_virus_

_you alright?_

_It has been isolated, and countermeasures are being employed._

_I apologize for not warning you about the ambush. I have just now found a loophole that allows me to message you._

_that's not your fault luv_

_Lena, I must emphasize it is highly probable I will not be able to alert the others of your location or condition if anything goes wrong. Therefore I would like to repeat._

_This action is EXTREMELY ill-advised._

_i know i know but i can't just sit back and do nothing_

_Your personality profile and records indicated as such. But I had to try._

_Take care of yourself, Lena. For both your own and your family's sakes._

Tracer's heart clenches reading the last line. Whoever said AIs didn't have the same emotional intelligence as humans had clearly never been guilt tripped by one.

Widowmaker and Reaper end their conversation. Widowmaker walks over to her and sits down. Tracer plasters a smile on her face.

"Here," Widowmaker says handing her a black hoodie.

Tracer examines the gift.

"You know with all the black, purple, and edge I was feeling a little underdressed. Do you want me to change my name too?" she asks.

"You have a spotlight strapped to your chest. This is a covert operation. Do at least try to get it right."

Tracer sets the hoodie down and taps her watch. The shifting holo-rings of her Accelerator dissipate. Next, the blue light from the core dims before vanishing completely. The quantum parts of the machine still hum quietly on her chest.

"Handy," Widowmaker says in approval.

"Can be. Makes it harder to know when I'm out of juice."

"You know, I'm surprised at how fast you agreed to help wanted felons," Widowmaker says with a sideways glance, "Did the angel on your shoulder not put much of a fight?"

"Oi! I'm not helping; I'm supervising. I'm just making sure you lot don't run off and murder anyone or blow something up."

"You're going to be an accessory to a crime committed by international terrorists, one of which wants to destroy everything you stand for. It's very unlike you, Oxton."

Tracer grimaces, "What are you getting at?"

"Just making sure you haven't gotten any brilliant ideas about calling the police or trying to play hero."

"I wouldn't call the police with Reaper here!" Tracer balks. It would be a bloodbath. "And I'm not going to take him or anyone else on, not without proper backup. I like pushing the envelope, not bloody crashing the plane."

Tracer sighs and fiddles with her goggles.

"I don't think we can get out of Rome without help and you are going to do this... heist anyways. The least I can do is minimize the damage."

Widowmaker hums, accepting her explanation.

Tracer feels the van slow and glances up.

"Look alive losers! We're here!" Sombra calls out.

* * *

 

Widowmaker looks at the front doors of the building through the van's window. Sombra promises the external cameras can't see anything and there's no point in trying to hide the van.

"Sombra, how we doing?" Reaper asks.

"I'm in," Sombra says, tapping away on a holo-keyboard.

"Does she say that every time?" Tracer asks out of the corner of her mouth.

"Yes," Widowmaker says tiredly.

"Perimeter clear, cameras looping, doors open, security offline," Sombra says.

"Good," Reaper says opening the sliding door, "Move out."

He and Widowmaker step out of the van. Sombra exits through the driver's side.

Reaper turns back. "Shorty, keep the engine running. We'll be back in ten." He slams the door in Tracer's shocked face. There's a click as Reaper engages the child safety lock.

Sombra struts ahead through the front doors, disappearing with a wave of her fingers. Widowmaker falls instep besides Reaper. She takes in the building as they approach. It's a more modern, mainly concrete with stonework accents. A solid design, barely four stories tall. The exterior is decorated with several shades of beige. Not very creative, but not surprising considering the owners.

Widowmaker frowns, feeling the air shift in a way that normally signals the arrival of the annoyance. Sure enough, there's the sound of space-time flexing, and Tracer appears in front of Reaper, arms crossed and indignant. Widowmaker has to give her credit for keeping up the theme of daring stupidity.

"I am not staying in the van," Tracer says.

"Not my problem since you're not coming with us," Reaper says shoulders tight, a warning growl layering his words.

Reaper is restraining himself, but just barely. Tracer, of course, is oblivious to the fact that most people aren't as long suffering as her. Widowmaker sighs, drawing Reaper's attention. Red eyes stare down at her from the shadows of his mask.

"Do you remember what I said about it not being worth it to argue?" she asks rhetorically. "She wants to come along? She can come along. She gets hurt? She gets hurt."

Reaper fumes, smoke rising off him, but he snaps at Tracer, "Either be useful or stay out of our way."

Tracer frowns but nods. Reaper pushes past her, his haze becoming thicker until he dissolves completely. His smoke cloud slithers off to wherever Sombra sent him. Widowmaker walks past Tracer cutting off her view of Reaper and snapping her out of her daze. Widowmaker hears Tracer swear softly before following her into the building.

Widowmaker examines the building's lobby. Helix's logo is plastered everywhere; a blocky abstract statue stands in the center, leather couches surround Blackwood ottomans, the check-in-desk is dark marble. It's the typical bland pretty that managers think makes a good impression on investors.

 _"Che cosa- Arrestare!"_  shouts the woman behind the front desk.

As the only visible members of the party, their entrance hasn't gone unnoticed.

"Easy, easy," Tracer says raising her hands. "We're not going to hurt you."

The Helix employee sputters out something in Italian and scrambles around behind the desk. Sombra de-cloaks behind her and places a hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Sweet dreams _,_ " Sombra whispers. The Helix employee locks up and then slumps over.

Tracer flinches then rushes over to the desk. She touches gloved fingers to the woman's neck. After a moment she lets out a sigh of relief having found a pulse.

"You didn't bring me just to stand around and look pretty, did you?" Widowmaker asks, unimpressed by the little drama. The employee won't remember much when she wakes up. Even in its reduced form, Sombra's EMP tended to be a shocking experience.

"Nah, that's what Reaper is for," Sombra says sliding the woman's collapsed form out of the way so she can reach the terminal.

Tracer glares at Sombra, who ignores her. Reaper walks back into the lobby. He tosses a lanyard to Sombra and glances at the unconscious body, but doesn't say anything. Tracer takes a step back and looks over the group.

"I'm going to check for civilians," Tracer says, "Just. Just don't go anywhere. I'll be back in five seconds."

Tracer zips off. Widowmaker watches her dark blur flash down the hallways as Tracer flirts around the ground floor.

"Coms?" Widowmaker asks touching her ear.

"Off," Sombra replies behind the terminal.

Widowmaker turns to Reaper. His wisps have returned to their normal state, indicating he's calmed down.

"Thank you for not shooting her," Widowmaker says.

Reaper shrugs. "Not worth the effort or the ammo."

Widowmaker hums and Sombra meanders back over.

"So the crack Chihuahua isn't on your shit list? Why not?" Sombra asks.

Widowmaker studies Reyes. Tracer had literally been the poster girl for Overwatch during its Twilight years. But Reyes had never expressed the same hatred towards her that he did at Morrison and the other core members.

"Oxton was too naïve to believe in subterfuge and too stupid to pull it off. Doubt she ever knew what was really going on," Reyes says.

"Sounds about right," Sombra says. "I wonder what her face looked like when she learned about the leaks. Or when you died. Man, her expression must have been priceless."

The flashes of movement are coming back towards them. Widowmaker clears her throat. Sombra falls silent.

Tracer burst into the lobby pushing a bewildered janitor clutching to a wheeled office chair for dear life. The pair rushes past them and out the sliding doors. The doors don't even have time to close before Tracer blinks back into the lobby.

"Ground floor clear," Tracer says.

"Good job Speedy _,_ " Sombra says in a patronizing tone, "We'll get you a cookie later."

Tracer huffs and rolls her eyes but her jaw stays tight.

Sombra leads them away from the picturesque front into the side corridors. The group walks a maze of undecorated corridors that smell of floor wax until they reach the heart of the complex; a central room where four hallways converge.

Reaper drops into a crouch at the edge of their hallway and holds a fist into the air. The group stops behind him. Widowmaker turns on her visor and surveys ahead. Two unnaturally hot and unnaturally tall heat signatures guard a set of double doors. A set of 050-MOs; they were a humanoid-style omnics, a soldier class favored by Helix. The rest of the floor is empty. Everything is as it should be at half past five in the morning.

Widowmaker nods at Reaper and holds up her thumb and index finger for Sombra. The hacker pulls up a screen, on it wireframe versions of the guards appear. Tracer glares at Sombra and shakes one of her pistols, reminding the hacker she can blow their cover if Sombra tries anything funny.

Sombra rolls her eyes and taps out a command activating premade programs. The wireframes turn purple. The omnics' eyes flicker and then go out. Their heads drop, and the door opens behind them. Sombra sprints into the hallway, Widowmaker and Reaper on her heels; Tracer races after them.

Tracer makes it through right before the doors snap shut. They made it to the most secure part of the building, a concrete hallway that ends in a vault door. Widowmaker stays back and watches the Omnics' heat signatures through the walls. Sombra starts hacking the multiple scanners and ID checkers controlling the door. After a few minutes, Sombra lets out an  _"Aha!"_ Widowmaker hears a number of successive clunks as the internal bolts unlock. Finally, the fifteen cm blast resistant steel swings open to reveal their goal. An elevator.

With a little bow, Sombra steps aside to let Reaper approach. While the elevator itself is nothing special, it's protection mechanism is. This lock is purely mechanical, a puzzle-like contraption that has nothing for Sombra to hack; instead it requires four custom-made magnetic keys. Four keys that they do not have, nor know where they are (with their luck, hidden in four separate countries, no doubt).

Reaper guides his claws into the edges of the door. Silver tips glide along the seams. After a moment, Reaper nods and steps back. He dissolves into a cloud of black and grey nanites. The swarming mass slips under the edges at the bottom of the door.

But of course, if one circumvents the system altogether –

After a moment, the arrow lights up with a  _ding._  All doors with accompanying locks slide open. Reaper's hand drops from the button pad.

"Going down?" he asks.

Everyone files in and they start their descent. The inside of the elevator is bare except for an ID checker, a fish lens, and a handful of buttons. There's no indication of how far they've descended or how far they have to go so Widowmaker settles in for the ride. The Muzak version of a song she liked in  _Lycèe_  plays over the speaker. Widowmaker frowns. She's getting old. Tracer glances around and then opens her mouth to say something. Widowmaker catches her eye and glares down at her. Tracer closes her mouth, apparently thinking better of it. The rest of the ride is silent.

Widowmaker feels the elevator slow and then stop. With a cheerful  _ding,_  the doors open revealing the Helix Security International Rome Master Sublevel.

"Oh, bloody hell," Tracer says, for once completely still.

The rest of the group walks around her out onto the observation platform. Widowmaker agrees with the sentiment.

Before them looms a thirty-story tower of black plastic and metal. Cables, CPUs, Motherboards, and thousands of other electronics flow together in an almost organic nature, creating the monstrosity.

Sombra struts out, her arms held out wide, like a ringmaster introducing the opening act.

"Welcome," she announces, "to Helix's dirty little secret. The Italian Omnium Mainframe."

The Mainframe stands in front of her like a leftover organ of some great beast. A shiver runs down Widowmaker's spine. The sheer size of an operational Omnium must have been breathtaking. Speaking of which, the Tower certainly requires a lot of open space.

Sombra takes in her audience's reaction.

"Stop looking so tense, Speedy. It's just a processor, not self-aware. Practically harmless. After the Italians ripped their Omnium apart, they had to put the pieces somewhere. Helix ended up keeping the best bits."

Reaper crosses his arms and growls in disgust, "Get on with it."

Widowmaker tears her eyes off the machine and copies Reaper's posture. She needs to focus. They were here to do things, not gawk like tourists.

"Fine, fine. No sense of presentation," Sombra mutters.

She frames the Tower with her fingers then pulls them apart, making a screen. Widowmaker sees it's a patchwork of different drawings melded together to make a complete blueprint. Sombra drags the image until it lines up with the Tower. She zooms in on a part and pokes at it until she's satisfied. With a tap, the screen stretches and then dissipates. Sombra reaches inside her coat and pulls out her Translocator.

 _"Araña,_  spot me," Sombra says, looking at Widowmaker.

Widowmaker touches the side of her visor. The lenses slide down bathing the world in red. A circulation duct on the Tower has been marked for her. She shifts her weight onto one foot and calculates.

"Distance ten meters, height thirty. Overshoot to the right to compensate for the air currents," Widowmaker says.

"Thank you," Sombra says passing her Translocator to her left hand.

"Here's the windup," Sombra stage whispers, pulling her knee and hand to her chest in an exaggerated motion, "And the pitch," Sombra explodes forwards, throwing the Translocator into the void.

The disk sails through the air and vanishes into the vent like a coin into a slot. Widowmaker switches to infrared and watches the marked Translocator fall. It slides and scrapes against the internal walls of the Mainframe. The disk hits a platform and bounces, rolling towards the edge. Sombra sucks in a breath, watching the visor's feed in her own eyes. The Translocator wobbles then drops flat stopping inches away from falling deeper into the Mainframe's core.

 _"GOOOOOOLLL!"_  Sombra shouts throwing her arms up in the air.

"That's the wrong sport," Tracer says.

"High fives!" Sombra turns her hands up. Widowmaker and Reaper each dutifully raise a hand; Sombra high-fives them both.

A shrill whistle emanates from the Mainframe. It builds in volume and is joined by other alarms of various pitches. Lines of cyan race up the Tower like nerve impulses. Far below them, at the Tower's base, hatches open and dozens of robotic ants spill out and start climbing up the sides.

"What did you do?" Tracer asks over the noise, flashes of neon blue reflecting on her goggles.

"Activated the Mainframe's protection protocols," Sombra says with a casual wave clearly enjoying Tracer's reactions. "It detected a breach. Don't worry; the alarm is isolated from the rest of the building. And it's just bots this time!"

Sombra turns to Widowmaker and Reaper.

"Everyone know what they're doing?" she asks.

"Yes," Widowmaker says.

Reaper grunts.

"No!" Tracer cries.

Reaper draws his shotguns and takes the catwalk that branches off from the platform. The catwalk continues to loop around the Mainframe a third of the way up. Meter long spindly legs poke over the railing as the swarm rises higher. Hellfire blasts ring out as Reaper picks off the bots crawling onto the catwalk. Behind him, Tracer is working her way through an extensive list of swears. Widowmaker rolls her eyes as she gets into position. She places one foot on the railing of the observation platform and checks that her rifle is secure.

"Why are you doing this?" Tracer asks, her voice rising, "What could you possibly have to gain? Is all this even necessary? Can't you just hack it?"

"Sure, but that takes forever and this is so much more fun," Sombra says before disappearing in a shower of purple pixels.

"More  _fun?"_

Widowmaker glances over her shoulder with a smirk. "And here I thought you were some sort of adrenaline addict. So much for working well under pressure," she mocks, stepping up onto the railing.

Tracer straightens up at the accusation. Widowmaker swandives off the platform before Tracer can respond.

Widowmaker lets the wind rush around her for a moment before raising her hand and firing her grappling hook. There's a firm yank in her left arm, and then she's flying up into the air. Her body adjusts itself accordingly, left shoulder relaxed, so the joint isn't pulled out of its socket. Breathe in and hold; keep her core tight, so the wind isn't ripped out of her.

There's a click in her ear as the coms turn back on.

"Time to get this party started," Sombra says, "Reaps, Widow. Remember you don't have to kill everything, just keep it away from me. I can't really hack while using all my processing power to get through the Mainframe's firewalls."

Widowmaker looks over and sees Sombra's green outline deep within the colossal pillar. The hacker is cramped, wedged between terminals, clearly in a place no one was supposed to access.

The sniper turns her head upward. She's reaching the end of her line. Widowmaker points her toes and swings her legs up. She lines up her muscles, bones, and tendons just right so her body soars. Oh, it's been so long since she got to  _move_. She launches herself feet first into the air. Her hook releases and Widowmaker readies her gun as momentum flips her back into an upright position.

In front of her, slots on the peaks of the Tower open. Eight Red-Tailed flying drones the size of mastiffs rise into the air. At the apex of her ascent, Widowmaker hangs weightless and fires.

Two drones drop onto the Tower's roof, dead. The others turn, locking onto her. They have a slower reaction time than the newer versions. Gravity's pull returns. Widowmaker plummets.

The drones dive after her and open fire. Sombra said the defenses weren't very smart. They'll go after the biggest threat and ignore everything else. The wind rushes around her, pulling at her sides and making her ponytail snap like a flag. Widowmaker lines up one more shot. A drone veers off smoking heavily. This she knows how to do.

Her grappling hook buries itself in the basement ceiling and Widowmaker kicks her legs out, abruptly changing direction. A horizontal shower of pulse shots flies past her. She glances down. Black ants are flooding the looping walkway. Reaper and Tracer clumsily dance around each other destroying the bots. The sounds of battle echo upwards. The Tower's alarms, Reaper's shotguns, Tracer's pistols, metal being crushed underfoot.

"How's everybody doin'?" Sombra asks in her ear.

A wall of white concrete is rapidly filling her vision. Widowmaker brings herself parallel and hits the wall running, ignoring the stiffness in her joints. The steel-alloy claws of her boots dig in while her line takes most of her weight.

"This is target practice," Widowmaker says running. A barrage of bullet holes appears in her wake.

"These things are annoying but not durable. It's under control," Reaper says.

"Well, none of this was designed for you guys. Still, don't get cocky."

"Look who's talking," Widowmaker mutters. That earns her a bark of laughter from Reaper.

Feeling the heat of pulse rounds on her back, she drops off the concrete back into the void.

"How long do we have before this is noticed?" Tracer questions.

"Afraid we're going to  _run_  out of time?" Sombra asks.

Widowmaker adjusts her grappling mount, letting out more line to increase the circumference of her swing.

"Am I the only one taking this seri- Ow! Reaper shot me!"

The swarm adjusts, but not fast enough. Widowmaker's drop in speed and position puts her under the group. Pointing her toes, she leans back and uses centrifugal force to keep her rifle pressed into her shoulder. Widow's Kiss has been specially designed with virtually no recoil so she can do things like this.

"You'd know if I shot you," Reaper says, "Stop blinking around, and I won't clip you."

The shot rings out and Widowmaker pulls her knees to her chest. She flies upwards leaving her stomach behind. The drones pull out of their dive trying to follow.

"Start aiming, and I won't have to blink around."

Reaper and Tracer continue arguing about who's being the bigger problem. This dissolves into insults and name-calling, including Widowmaker's personal favorites:  _Rocket Corgi_  and  _Halloween Town Reject._  Considering it's no worse than Reaper and Sombra's usual squabbles, Widowmaker ignores it.

Widowmaker repositions her grapple and swings in close to the Tower. The pulse fire tapers off. The drones don't want to hit the Mainframe. She glances over. Her blurry image is repeated in the reflective surfaces of sheets of metal and plastic, occasionally interrupted by flashes of blue. She reaches out letting her gloved fingers skim the surface of the Mainframe. A pale figure with blood red eyes reaches back.

 _"Araña,_  you've got bogies."

Widowmaker pulls her hand back and switches to infrared. Above her, through the Tower, she sees the red outline of two drones. They must have broken off and circled around.

"Ah,'bogies', that's a fun word."

The blind spot created by the corner ahead makes a good place for an ambush. Widowmaker smiles. A swing of her legs and a twist of her wrist reels her in while keeping close to the Tower. She reaches the end of the side and cuts her line.

The drones glide around the corner; turrets aimed where she should have been. Widowmaker descends on them like a bird of prey. The claw of her grappling hook flies past the first drone and latches onto the second one with a crunch. She drops, arms back, legs locked. Widowmaker hits the first drone.

Her heels shatter the arm connecting the right propeller to the chassis. Her mount wizzes, guiding her into the second. Her feet slam into its top, denting the metal. The drone bobs and weaves, losing altitude. Above her, she hears the turret guns of the swarm warming up. The rest must have processed that their friends are done for. Time to go. Widowmaker launches out of her crouch. Jumping she yanks on the line, ripping the second drone's CPU into the air.

Gunfire rains down on her. Widowmaker chuckles, aiming her grappling mount. This had been a  _magnificent_  idea.

* * *

Tracer hops out of the way of the incoming metal pincers. The mandibles snap shut as the ant drone lunges forward, leaving it's back open. Tracer blinks behind it and empties her clip at the weak spot. A geyser of sparks erupts from the bot's plating. The ant falls to the floor with a clang, the last one of this wave. Tracer brings her pistol to her lips and blows pretend smoke off the barrel. Taking time to enjoy a self-indulgent moment of victory.

At a corner Reaper bodily slams his last bot into the railing, repeatedly. Only when the ant can do little more than twitch does he drop it. The mercenary rolls his neck eliciting a crack that carries over the platform. Tracer shutters.

Reaper turns his head and his mask looks in her direction. Without any change in demeanor, he aims one of his shotguns at her. Tracer's eyes widen. Her Accelerator whirls back to life and she blinks away. A thunderous roar rings out and an ant drone crumples. It had been climbing up a maintenance ladder behind her.

"Missed one," Reaper growls, "Stay alert. I'm not here to babysit you."

Tracer's brow furrows pulling her eye protection down. Honestly, she doesn't know what she expected but apparently, manners and logical plans are too much to ask of some people. She nudges her goggles back up with her shoulder. A strange scratching-clanking sound rebounds from under them deep within the Tower. Tracer snaps her wrist skywards, rewinding her pistols. The next wave is coming.

Reaper tosses aside his shotguns and pulls another pair out of thin air. Past him, sections of the path shake as the bots swarm, crawling over each other, surging onto the walkway.

"Reaper," Widowmaker announces over the coms, "Heads up."

Tracer charges at the enemies, only to be stopped by Reaper's outstretched arm. She glares at him.

Reaper's mask is tilted upwards. Tracer follows his gaze in time to see a hunk of parts the size of a football lands on the walkway. It bounces once and rolls towards the swarm. There's a crunch as a leg skewers it. The horde of ants marches onward unperturbed but then Tracer hears something. The sound of something much bigger falling.

A 782-Redtailed drone drops out of the sky. It slams into the swarm like a bowling ball into a row of pins, sending metallic bodies skyward. Metal tears with a screech as the collision takes the walkway corner with it.

Reaper lowers his arm.

After a few seconds, the sound of metal cracking and the start of several electrical fires rebounds off the basement's floor.

 _"Ves, te dije que, Ziegler sabe lo que está hacienda,"_  Sombra says.

"Hmm," Reaper rumbles craning his neck backward.

Tracer looks up. Squinting, she can make out Widowmaker's figure between the glare of the lights. The sniper dips and twists and swoops out of the way of gunfire with more flair than Tracer's ever seen. She watches another Redtail drone fall accompanied by Widowmaker doing a number of unnecessary flips. Using her thumb Tracer pushes her earpiece snug. Ignoring the Tower's sirens, she strains her ears for something from Widowmaker's channel.

Widowmaker's next hairpin turn is joined by a stifled laugh. Her grappling hook latches onto a wall, and the sniper lets out a soft  _"woo"_  as she shoots up in the air.

"Was she like this," Tracer asks quietly, "when she worked with you?"

"I've never seen her like this," Reaper answers soaking in the distant performance.

* * *

Unnoticed by the two fighters, a pair of onyx antenna peaks over a corner of the Tower's side. The antennas twitch and then retreat. The owner of the probes climbs back from the edge and turns to two other bots, relaying its information. The three bots survived by chance. They were on the Mainframe's side when the railing was ripped away.

A short discussion is held. They conclude such a small group will not have a chance killing the intruders. Being unable to fulfill their main objective [Protect] they switch to their secondary objective [Repair].

Eighteen needle-like legs fit into grooves between the Mainframe's plates. The three ants begin climbing to remove the contaminant far above.

* * *

The only surviving Redtail is pursuing her with renewed abandon, Widowmaker notes, switching back to purely evading. She swings into one of the walls. Her boots allow her to perch for a moment. It might be offended that all its siblings are dead. She pushes off. Gunfire fills her shadow full of holes. Pain flares in her calf. Or it might be desperate now that it's the only one left.

Widowmaker bares her teeth in a grin. She's so missed the thrill of the hunt. With a flick, she repositions her hook above the Tower. Widowmaker twists her wrist three times, shifting the mount to its highest gear, and is yanked towards the ceiling at breakneck speed. The drone's engine screams as it shoots up after her.

Her reflection is a smear of colors as Widowmaker whips around the Mainframe. Behind her, the drone roars like a massive angry hornet. Together they spiral upwards, faster and faster. Each revolution becomes tighter and tighter, neither gaining nor losing ground.

Almost there. Widowmaker switches to infrared. She slides her rifle off her back. Just a little bit further. Black spots flash in the edge of her vision. She pushes the stock into her shoulder and adjusts her grip. Widowmaker raises her rifle just as she becomes level with the circulation duct marked by her visor. She pulls the trigger.

The bullet leaves her barrel, enters the vent, flies over Sombra, across the Tower, exits through a mirror vent, and cuts into the Redtail drone on the opposite side.

"Hey! Watch the hair _,_ " Sombra chastises.

Widowmaker lets out a sharp laugh watching the red outline of her final adversary plunges. She slows then pauses her mount, stopping her ascent. Widowmaker swings a leg up and wraps the line around her ankle to give her shoulder a break. Holding her rifle against the small of her back and the crooks of her elbows, she lets herself swing.

Her remaining momentum carries her in wide, lazy circles. Widowmaker silently chuckles to herself, enjoying the rush of a job well done. She closes her eyes and listens to the measured pulse pounding in her ears and catches her breath. She completed a job no one else could do. Widowmaker lets out a content sigh. The only way this could be better is if she was actually killing someone. When was the last time she had this much fun?

Widowmaker opens her eyes.

Fun?

She unhooks her ankle and drops down on the pyramid roof of the Mainframe.

When was the last time she did something for pure enjoyment? Nothing came close to rivaling the thrill of a mission. Nothing. But doing things with Reaper or Sombra was nice. And back at Talon, she had a king's ransom to spoil herself on her off days. But fun?

"... something below me.  _Araña,_  I'm going to need you..."

Surely, something she'd done last year outside of missions had been more than just  _nice._

"Hey, hey, Azul?  _Azul."_

She, she can't think of anything-

"Widow!"

Widowmaker shakes her head. Sombra's been yelling at her.

"Any time now," Sombra says her voice rising an octave.

Widowmaker sprints to the edge of the Mainframe and slides into a kneeling position. She puts her scope to her face. Several stories below her three ant drones have climbed up the tower and are digging through its outer shell. Sombra's green outline has pushed herself as far back in her niche as she can.

Her diamond sight floats over the leading bot's center.

"Not like my life is in danger or anything."

The ants' pincers rip away the last bit of outer plating.

Inhale.

The lead ant draws back one of its front legs, like a soldier priming a spear.

_"Mierda."_

Exhale.

Sombra twists out of the way, barely avoiding being skewered.

Widow's Kiss makes a polite cough, and then there's a brand new hole in all three bots, one after another, the robotic limb of the lead bot sliding out of the hole it just created. Sombra's outline slumps against the inner parts of the Mainframe as the bots tumble away.

"One shot, three kills," Widowmaker says.

"Cut that one a little close there, Widow."

A ding filters through the coms.

"Aaaaannnndd now it's done. Of course, after the killer robots wise up."

Sombra mutters in Spanish. After a moment Widowmaker sees Sombra's arm protrude from the hole in the Tower.

"Reaper if you let me turn into a smear I'm never resurrecting ancient music for you again."

Sombra snaps her wrist and flings her Translocator like it was a multimillion-euro Frisbee. Reaper has made his way back to the elevator's platform. He raises a clawed hand and snatches the disk out of the air. He drops the beacon on the floor, and Sombra appears seconds later. Tracer is picking her way through the carnage making her way to the exit as well.

The alarms and sirens start to die off as the Tower processes that Sombra is no longer inside it, but it will stay lit up like a Christmas tree for a while. After they leave the ant bots will collect and recycle the scrap on the basement floor. Not quite the perfect crime but everything should be back to normal long befor anyone checks.

Widowmaker shoulders her rifle and slips off the edge of the Tower. She plummets towards the ground every so often using her grappling hook to slow her descent.

"Reaper, if you would, please," she says.

There's a sound of acknowledgment in her ear.

Reaper steps away from the elevator and raises his hands. Widowmaker cuts her line angling her body towards the platform. Toes pointed, arms lifted, she falls the last few meters towards Reaper. He catches her around her waist and lowers her to the ground.

 _"Merci,"_  Widowmaker says touching down.

Widowmaker snaps her ponytail over her shoulder and walks to the elevator.

"I still don't understand how you can do that in heels," Sombra comments, working on tweaking the security systems. 

"It's as you said, _ma chère_ , I'm a professional," Widowmaker purrs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> Che cosa- Arrestare! – (Italian) What- Stop!
> 
> Lycèe – (French) High School
> 
> Araña – (Spanish) Spider
> 
> Ves, te dije que, Ziegler sabe lo que está hacienda – (Spanish) See, I told you, Ziegler knows what she's doing.
> 
> Azul – (Spanish) Blue
> 
> Merci – (French) Thank you
> 
> Betaed by Mint Leaf
> 
> Edited 5/1/18 Betaed by Dot
> 
> Edited 7/22/18
> 
> Thank you to everyone who comments or follows this story.
> 
> As always, please let me know if you see any errors.
> 
> /Thank you to Holy–Moly-batman for your very kind words. I don't think I'm a Vinci but I'm glad you're enjoying the story.
> 
> A question that you may have - What are the background/implied ships in Sass?
> 
> None? All? Whatever you want?
> 
> Amélie/Gerard and Lena/Emily will be the only pairs explicitly stated. I'm not huge into shipping and I think the various alliances/friendships/mentorships between the Overwatch cast are interesting enough by itself.
> 
> Finals are fast approaching and Life is happening honestly that means there will probably be another hiatus soon./
> 
> Tracer: I'm the voice of reason
> 
> Tracer: I should NEVER be the voice of reason
> 
> A List of Canon Things Widowmaker Has Done
> 
> \- Climbed to the top of building
> 
> \- Took out all the rooftop guards mostly by doing flips
> 
> \- Jumped off the perfectly good building
> 
> \- To shoot at her target, while hanging from her grappling line, upside down
> 
> \- Ended up shooting her target while in midair


	16. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by villainous friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swearing

The quartet piles back into the van.

“… and we didn’t even kill anyone. See, Speedy, you didn’t need to come at all,” Sombra says buckling into the driver seat. 

“That is precisely why I went with you.” Tracer turns the holo-rings of her Accelerator back on.  “What type of point even is that?”

Widowmaker sits down across from Tracer and rolls her shoulder with a grimace. Reaper slips into the seat next to her.

“Twelve point five minutes arrival to departure,” Widowmaker says.

“Still would have been faster without her,” Reaper replies crossing his arms.

“You can’t get everything you want, _mon chèr_.” Widowmaker leans back against the worn leather.

Her back is on fire; her shoulder protests every time she moves, and her right calf throbs where she was clipped. Not to mention how her legs are going to feel over the next few days. She didn’t exactly warm-up.

She’s out of practice. It was a good thing that her opponents were quite outdated.

The rush that comes from flinging herself into the air with only a wire for support is wearing off. Widowmaker settles in a bit closer to Reaper than necessary. She’ll rest her eyes, just for a second, to block out Tracer and Sombra’s jabbering. She’s not in danger, after all.

“What possible rational argument could you have to follow that?” Tracer demands. 

“I’m just saying you didn’t really do anything. Your involvement was kind of a moot point.”

The voices begin to fade, and a high-pitched ringing fills her ears. Widowmaker frowns. She tries to open her eyes but finds she can’t. She feels like she’s slipping underwater, and then everything stops.

 

* * *

 

[L'ECOLE DE DANSE DE L'OPÉRA DE PARIS -- SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO]

_Amélie reached the far end of the dance room.  Breathing hard, she lowered her feet out of en pointe. Her legs and arms were quivering from the exertion, but she still had to do the finale of her routine._

_She shook herself out and took three deep breaths. Centered, she stepped away, closed her eyes, and let her mental soundtrack engulf her._

_She stepped across the wooden floor. The music swelled. She pushed off with one leg and extended her other into a grand jeté.  She raised her arms above her head and leaned back. At the jump’s apex, her back foot almost touched her head. She hovered in the air for a brief moment and then she was already coming down. Amélie controlled the impact as she landed. She took a small step, finishing in fourth position._

_Slowly she lowered her arms and then bent at the waist until her hands touched her feet, bowing to imaginary thunderous applause._

_“Your arms were too far apart on that leap,” Charlotte said in French, pulling Amélie out of her visualization. “You’re supposed to make an arch, not look like you’re holding a laundry basket.”_

_“Feedback later,” Amélie said into her knees, “Basking now."_  

_“You landed with too much weight in your heels. Also, I hope you’re not calling that ‘fourth position’.”_

_Amélie stood up to examine her critic. Charlotte leaned against the wall, pulling at her dark curls. She wasn’t practicing today so she could get away with wearing the school’s green tracksuit._  

_As arguably one the best dancers of their age group and Amélie’s good friend. Charlotte constantly pushed Amélie to be better, which meant she was annoying as hell. Amélie enjoyed returning the favor._

_Charlotte threw a hand towel at her. As she moved, her jacket revealed a strap across her stomach, a back brace. Charlotte had been benched after her leg almost gave out a week ago during rehearsals. Diagnosis: a bulging disc._

_“Come on, the results of auditions are up,” Charlotte said._

  _Amélie hid her expression under the towel. The days after auditions were both tedious and nerve-racking. Waiting for the panel of teachers, directors, and other judges to sift through half of the student body too cut your performance to pieces was enough to give any student an ulcer. But Amélie was dreading the results for different reasons._

  _“There’s going to be a bottleneck,” Amélie said dabbing at her face. “And I already know who’s going to be what. At this point everyone does.”_

  _“Well it doesn’t matter. You can’t hide in here forever. You’re going to suffer along with the rest of us.” Charlotte grabbed Amélie’s wrist and started towards the door._

  _Amélie groaned as she was dragged off to the changing rooms._

* * *

_Amélie and Charlotte made their way through the crowd of students clad in various types of athletic gear. Ages ranged from twelve to seventeen; the student body was made up of a dizzying array of nationalities, techniques, and specialties. Charlotte pushed her way to the front, but Amélie was tall enough to see over the mob of bunheads._

_Amélie scanned the bulletin board for the casting results of the Spring ballet, Coppélia. It was a comedy that was technically a romance. It involved a young couple in love, a life-sized mechanical doll, and the 1800s equivalent of a mad scientist. While the show itself would be a very serious affair Amélie was glad that they would be performing something more lighthearted._

_ ~ Corps de Ballet ~ _

_The corps were made up of every dancer onstage that didn’t play a named character. If the main characters were the face of a performance, then the corps were the body. Not a position that would get you a fan club, but without them there wouldn’t be a show._

_Villager #3 - Kjetil, Paul_

_He was too slow and a good five cm too tall._

_Coryphée, Doll #1 - Bernard, Agetha_

_She had the skill but not the extremely slender figure. Despite the steps modern dance had made prejudices still lurked under the surface. That situation was a lawsuit waiting to happen, Amélie mused._

_ ~ Secondary Characters ~ _

_Playing any character with a name was a step up. To get one of these roles you had to make yourself stand out from a third of the student body in auditions._

_ Town Councillor’s Wife _

_1)  Dubois, Maya_

_2) Indira, Zydre_

 

_Maya had recovered from a strained hamstring physically but not yet mentally; couldn’t risk her being center stage._

_ Priest _

_1) Thomas, Gabriel_

_2) Antic, Russ_

_Russ was built like a classic danseur, strong and light; but his face, however, left some things to be desired._

_ ~ Understudies ~ _

_Understudies learned two parts, their original and the understudy role along with the cast dancers. Twice the work for half a chance to get yourself noticed. It had worked for Amélie, but the process was exhausting._

_Dr. Copplius (Understudy) – Jackson, Francis_

 

_Swanlda (Understudy) - Robert, Louise_

_She was a fantastic dancer but tended to second-guess herself on stage._

_ ~ Leads ~ _

_And finally, the stars of the show. These positions hold the most prestige and the most pressure. Amélie skimmed over the results for Dr. Coppelius, Coppélia, and Fraz till she reached the casting for the lead._

_ Swanilda _

_1) Motta, Charlotte_

_2) Guillard, Amélie_

_3) Moon, Concepta_

 

_The clamor of students discussing their positions grew louder as the seniors found their results. Some celebrated with high-fives or squealing, others complained about the politics that played out behind the scenes. One or two shot her a glare. More flashed her a smile or a thumbs-up. Amélie waved weakly in response._

_Charlotte sighed heavily beside her. “You could at least act excited that you’re replacing me,” she grumbled, “Most would kill for a chance to star, even if it was under suspicious circumstances.”_

  _The world of professional dance was quite cutthroat. A few years ago Amélie would have been elated to moving closer to securing a job after graduation. But a promotion due to default, especially an injury, was not something she considered a victory._

_“Well done, Amélie,” Paul said lightly hitting her shoulder as he passed._

_“Thank you,” Amélie said on reflex._

_Rehab would make it more difficult to hangout with Charlotte as it was, but becoming first cast would make things even more awkward. Refusing the position would make it look like she lacked the dedication needed to go pro. Where would they even put her? Sure, she auditioned for other parts but casting results were final._

_Amélie rolled her neck. Was this hesitation really based on social concerns or was she just afraid? The damage that stumbling on the ‘world’s most watched stage’ was not something to be taken lightly. She glanced at Charlotte’s back. And there were other factors to consider._

  _“Congrats, Amélie.”_

_She refocused to find Maya shaking her hand. The other dancer squeezed hard, making Amélie flinch._

_Maya leaned in close and whispered, “Everyone knows you got the position because of a fluke. You’ll be out of here when Daddy’s money runs out.”_

_Under her t-shirt, Amélie’s shoulder blades tightened._

_“Good luck,” Maya said with a bright smile, “You’re going to need it.”_

_“What?” Charlotte asked touching her arm. Amélie ignored her. “What did she say?”_

_“Charlotte,” Amélie said shouldering her bag. “I’m going to outshine the fucking sun."_

 

* * *

 

“-maker? Lacroix.”

Widowmaker jerks awake. Her eyes snap open; her body freezes in place.

She’s in the back of a van. Three possible exits, none obstructed. Her body hurts but no major injuries. She’s functional. Widow’s Kiss is accounted for; other possible weapons are nearby.

Sombra’s voice fills the small space as she hits the high note of a song on the radio. Widowmaker can feel the hover pad’s vibrations filter up through the floorboards. Tracer has squished herself back into a corner and is focused on her phone. Reaper half-looms over her.

“What?” Widowmaker snaps.

“We’re back,” Reaper says.

She sits up, ignoring the weird sensation in the back of her head. Shifting, she can see out the van’s windshield. Their hotel is visible further up the road.

“Noted,” she says leaning back.

Reaper’s mask tilts slightly, his version of raising an eyebrow. Widowmaker shakes her head. They’ll talk later.

* * *

[SAINT MICHAEL HOTEL – PRESENT 06:24]

Widowmaker checks the time and looks towards the front door again.

Once they got back to the safe house, Sombra more or less took charge despite Tracer’s protests. Under her “orders”, Reaper moved the couch while Widowmaker dragged out a card table so they could sit down and eat. With the heavy lifting done, Sombra left to go hunt down some food. Reaper went off somewhere, leaving Widowmaker alone with Tracer.

Currently, Tracer is doing her best to entertain herself. This involves tapping out a beat with her fingers and glancing sporadically around the safe house as if the solution to her unwelcome guests will magically appear. Widowmaker examines the card table. She still doesn’t understand why Overwatch, with all its UN money, couldn’t have purchased better accommodations. She swipes at a spot of discoloration. The spot remains and her fingers come back sticky. Widowmaker curls her lip and wipes her hand on the underside of the table.

Widowmaker hears the sound of a bolt unlocking. The double patio doors open and close, apparently under their own power. A second later Sombra de-cloaks in front of them.

“I’m baaack!” Sombra exclaims lifting bags of takeout into the air.

Tracer perks up at Sombra’s arrival and proceeds to sniff the air a few times. Widowmaker gives her a sidelong look. A swirling mass of black smoke settles over one of the empty chairs and condenses into Reaper. With two clunks he sets his combat boots on the table.

“Finally,” he says.

“Sorry I took so long. It took ten minutes of searching and the threat of eviction but I finally found a decent place open this early,” Sombra says sorting through the bags.

“For Reaps, ten with everything except olives. Just the way you like it.” Sombra shoves an entire bag at him. Reaper doesn’t move, letting the bag slide to a stop next to his boots.

_“Azul_ , I got you a purse.” Sombra throws a medium-sized bag at Widowmaker. Her hand snaps up catching it before it hits her head.

“It belonged to a stuck up old lady so you two probably have similar taste,” Sombra says.

Widowmaker opens the purse and examines its contents. Mirror, makeup kit that won’t work with her skin tone, hand sanitizer, perfume from a brand she recognizes, gum, and an e-reader.  Not a tablet; the device is designed like its ancestors, only able to download and view text, not surf the Internet nor take pictures. Curious.

“Lena, I know what you like, but I don’t care.” Tracer barely catches the bag of food that hits her square in the chest.

“And a normal sized meal for me!”

With everything distributed Sombra plunks herself down in the remaining seat and turns off her hardlight nails. Reaper shuffles through his bag while Tracer unwraps one of her items with more caution than necessary. When she is done, Tracer looks at Sombra in confusion.

“We’re in Italy, and out of all the pasta-bilities you got calzones?” Tracer asks, sounding offended.

”I– Wow. Just wow. That was terrible. Never speak again. Wow.” Sombra blinks a few times. “I’m starting to see the appeal of shooting you in the face.”

“Starting?” Widowmaker asks while browsing the collection of novels on the e-reader.

“Unless you want my half digested food and stomach acid all over the floor I hope you brought something else for me,” Reaper growls.

“Yeah, yeah.” Sombra waves away Reaper’s attitude. “I got you some real meat out back. Not your favorite but I had a hard enough time getting that bucket across town. Just do it out there, ‘kay? I still want to be able to eat this.”

“Do what?” Tracer asks as Reaper leaves the table.

“Do what?” She repeats, this time nudging Widowmaker.

Widowmaker ignores her. She has found the electronic version of a series she’s already read. She remembers being fond of them but can’t call back the feeling. The author has produced twelve more volumes over the years. Reaper used to give her paperbacks; during those long missions they had together. He wanted her to _“Stop being so creepy, staring at nothing like in The Shining.”_ She read them out of boredom. She has no opinion on those stories, good or bad.

One title catches her eye. It was the last novel she checked out years ago. She never got to finish it.

She is struck by twin urges to lock herself away in a room then re-read the entire novel in one sitting or snap the e-reader in half, scream, and flip the table for good measure.

Widowmaker lets out a long shaky breath.

There’s no reason to be so dramatic. She powers off the e-reader and sets it aside.

Reaper steps out onto the balcony and closes the glass doors behind him. He looks around before dragging a large plastic pail closer to him. One of his armored hands dips into the bucket. It comes back with a crab dangling from his fingers.

Reaper does not look impressed with Sombra’s choice of live edibles.

“What-” Tracer starts. 

Widowmaker watches him crush the crustacean in the palm of his hand. His gauntlet smokes, nanites eating away at it until the crab’s shell and organs dissolve. Mollified by his taste test Reaper kneels and reaches into the pail. This time his entire arm changes into a hungry cloud. The rest of the bushel is absorbed in a similar manner. The faintest traces of ash will be all that remains of his meal.

“ _Okay_ then,” Tracer says.

Reaper stands. A shiver rolls down his body. He is splicing the organic material into his own, mending wounds, re-growing organs. When he’s done he solidifies and opens the door.

 “You must get out less than I thought if that shocks you,” Sombra says,  “Besides, who gets emotional over a few shellfish?”

Tracer glares in response to Sombra’s playful grin. She crosses her arms and lifts her chin, showing off her bruise.

“I am a friend to all animals. Unlike you people,” Tracer says.

“All animals,” Sombra repeats,  “Even, say, roaches? Mosquitoes? Leeches? I mean dang girl, that’s kind of creepy but I gotta give you points for being honest.”

Tracer presses her lips into a thin line but doesn’t rise to the bait. Reaper takes his seat.

As much as she is enjoying this, Widowmaker needs to keep their little group from imploding for the next few hours.

“Are we really having this discussion?” Widowmaker ask, shooting Sombra a look and making eye contact with Tracer. “They were going to be someone’s dinner anyways.”

 Sombra rolls her eyes buts starts eating, letting the topic drop. Tracer picks at her food. She looks at Reaper who’s taking off his gauntlets.

 “So what do you prefer to, uh, eat?” She asks him.

Reaper glances up, “Mammals. Dogs, cats, the like. The closer it is to my base genetics the better. But I thought your organization already knew that,” Reaper shakes his head laying his gantlets down. “It’s dangerous not to brief your agents.”

 Tracer’s face pinches in confusion but she hesitates, not waiting to be harassed again.

 Sombra stifles a laugh. “He’s called the Reaper for a reason _chica_. Surely, you’re familiar with his work.”

 Widowmaker can see the gears turning in her brain. Tracer pales.

 “Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite,” she says pushing away from the table.

Widowmaker closes her eyes in frustration. More childish antics. At this point, she should expect Tracer to pull something like this.

 “By all means, do whatever you want,” Widowmaker says,  “Just keep in mind when you faint later it will make things so much easier for me.”

 Widowmaker has never experienced Tracer with low blood sugar, and she wants to keep it that way.

 Tracer stops where she stands and grimaces at the logic behind the comment. She grabs her bag off the table and walks away. Widowmaker hears her put it in the refrigerator.

“So, how come she is _‘ma chére,’_ but I’m not?” Sombra asks between bites.

“Because you’re a little shit,” Reaper says.

Widowmaker smirks. Reaper is always so much more pleasant to be around after he gets to feed.

“Reaper, I am hurt and offended,” Sombra says placing a hand on her chest.

“I don’t hear you defending yourself,” Widowmaker says.

Now these conversations she’s missed. It was a rule among the three of them. If you dish it out you have to be able to take it.

_“Et tu, Brute?_  Whatever did I do to you guys?”

“You mean besides sabotaging six missions?” Reaper asks tilting his mask forward so he can slip food underneath it.

“Not all those for my fault. You know we work with some real pieces of work,” Sombra protests.

“How about the time you closed a door on my hair so you could have a forty-five minute “conversation” with me?” Widowmaker asks making air quotes.

“Oh, come on, _amiga_. I needed a sounding board, and all you had to do was stand there and look irritated, which you did wonderfully!” Sombra says, “I named the virus after you.”

“You broke into my safe,” Reaper says pointing with his calzone

“And it ate my hand,” Sombra shoots back splaying her fingers, “I was in a cast for three weeks.”

“I only rigged it because you were getting into everyone’s stuff.”

“Come on Reaps. We all have hobbies.”

“Get some better ones.”

“You reprogrammed my visor to say those ridiculous video game phrases,” Widowmaker says.

“Oh yeah,” Sombra says,  “I forgot about that one. Good old Samuel L Jackson. Did you like the extra encouragement?”

Widowmaker thinks back to the over enthusiastic male announcers shouting _“Headshot! Double Kill! Triple Kill! Cluster Headache!”_ nearly making her fall out of her sniper’s nest.

“... no.”

“Ah well,” Sombra says.

“Are we just forgetting about the time you translocated your sorry ass into an air duct?” Reaper demands, “I got you out, and how did you repay me? You replace my guns with rubber chickens. That scream.”

Widowmaker has seen the video. It was amazing the amount of emotion the human body could convey despite being fully covered. And she had never heard Reaper swear with such vigor or multilingual ingenuity before. It was the most entertaining thing she’d seen all year. She’d almost laughed. 

“That set up took four months of planning, a dozen bribes, and over eighty hours of coding and testing, by yours truly. That was some of my finest work. You can’t hate me for that.” 

“The mission failed. My team died. I lost an arm, Sombra.”

“It grew back. And you never cared about those guys anyways.”

“What about the time you threw chips at my face and called me a demon?” Widowmaker asks.

“You deserve that one,” Reaper says, his mouth full.  Widowmaker rolls her eyes at his table manners.

“That,” Sombra says holding a finger in the air, “was not my fault.”

“First off, unlike normal people, you like to prowl around silently in the dark for no apparent reason. Second, you have coyote eyes. It’s freaky. Third, I refused to be judged by people who unironically referred to themselves as Death Farmer and Husband Killer.”

Reaper starts to defend his title of choice, but Widowmaker is no longer listening. She realizes she hasn’t heard Tracer leave. She glances back to see Tracer leaning against the island; watching them with sharp, inquisitive eyes. For some reason that concerns her more than the speedster’s pulse bombs ever did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> Mon chér – (French) my dear  
> Azul – (Spanish) Blue  
> Ma chére – (French) my dear  
> Et tu, Brute? – (Latin) Even you, Brutus?  
> Amiga – (Spanish) friend
> 
>  
> 
> AN  
> Betaed by 2JRC6  
> Betaed by Dot Edited 7/11/18
> 
> I'm not dead just busy
> 
> A big thank you to everyone who commented or left kudos. 
> 
> Please PM me if you see any grammar, spelling, translations or other errors. If anyone knows anything about ballet and sees that I got something wrong PM me.
> 
> Grand Jete is based on this [Video](https://www.diyphotography.net/six-worlds-difficult-ballet-moves-captured-slow-motion)
> 
> The Reaper’s-Guns-as-Rubber-Chickens joke was not completely my idea but it was just too good to pass up.  
> [This is the original comic](http://humming-fly.tumblr.com/post/165818977410/humming-fly-ok-but-if-reaper-really-is-made-of) Enjoy and give humming-fly lots of love. –  
>  
> 
> Ballet is /weird/.
> 
> In Widowmaker's defense Talon was incredibly straight laced before Sombra showed up.


	17. Reyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Name: Gabriel Reyes. Occupation: Former Blackwatch Commander. Status: KIA.  
> Name: Reaper. Occupation: Mercenary. Status: Partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swearing, mental illness discussed

With the food consumed, the party separates out to different corners. Sombra claims the couch and covers the living room in floating holo-screens, working on deciphering her stolen info. Reaper moves to the kitchen blasting heavy metal and brooding. Tracer scurries off to the bedroom not trusting anyone else in the quartet. Widowmaker is looking forward to hiding away on the roofs but there are a few things she needs to take care of first.

Reaper is sitting, his back against the wall, tossing playing cards into a trashcan at the other end of the kitchen space near the front door, his phone blaring “music” that sounds like a piece of cutlery in a garbage disposal.

He looks up as Widowmaker approaches, she pulls out a package of meds and tosses them to him. He catches it and flips the box over. Widowmaker sees his eyes light up as he reads the label: Non-Drowsy Combat Approved Pain Relievers, the good stuff. His mask dissolves as he rips into the sealed pouches. He pops a pill into his mouth and crushes it between his teeth; the second one he swallows dry. Noticing that she hasn’t left, Reaper pats the floor next to him.

Widowmaker kneels down, moving as fast as her sore muscles will allow her. Reaper returns to his game and flicks a card at the trashcan. It flies through the air but loses speed halfway, falling short and joining others on the floor. Widowmaker picks up two cards. Mimicking Reaper’s movement she throws the first one. It sails towards the trash can but veers away at the last moment. She frowns, recalculates, and tries again. The second card soars into the trashcan and hits the metal back with a clang.  

Reaper growls in fake frustration. He picks up his next card, crushes it into a ball, and throws it at the can. It goes in.

“Swish,” he says, “two points.”

He grins. He’s left his mask off revealing a scarred face, graying curly hair, and brown skin that’s been discolored by death. It’s a sign of vulnerability, of trust. Amélie returns the favor. She smiles back.

Reaper--Reyes, Widowmaker finds a voice in her head correcting her--picks up his phone and sets it back down so the sound pours out into the air before descending back on them, creating a protective bubble.

“So, what do you think of Rome?” he asks.

She thinks about the stones that refuse to crumble, the locals that refuse to cater to the tourists, the roads that refuse to be repaved.

“The city seems to say, ‘I don’t give a shit.’ I can appreciate that.”

Reyes chuckles. “You would like Naples; it’s even worse.”

He flicks another card. It goes in, just barely tipping over the can’s lip. Amélie picks up a card and turns it over in her hands 

“How’s Overwatch?”

She shrugs. “No longer floundering. Still trying to work out their pecking order because they refuse to admit they have one. Still stalwartly pretending to stand for good despite the fact that they can’t agree on what that is. How’s Talon?”

“Still chugging along. Most interesting thing that happened was a small AI rebellion in the robotics division. Overwatch’s interference has disrupted some of the uppers cozy routines. Suppose I should thank you for that. Akande is making changes, weeding out the leeches.”

“No one to replace me?”

“They’ve tried.” His eyes twinkle.

“My handlers are dead, aren’t they?” Amélie spins the card.

“Yep,” Reyes confirms, “though, that gunsmith you liked made it to Russia, last I heard.”

“Hmm, good for him.”

“You know, we’re past January and Portero is still alive,” he says and Amélie tenses, “That means I win.”

She swears. She’d hoped he’d forgotten about that bet.

Reyes chuckles. “Told you. Politicians, they’re like cockroaches.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pay you back later. My funds are little tied up at the moment.”

“I’ll put it on your tab.”

“Your ingrate is doing well,” she says testing the waters, “settled in nicely and found ways to make himself useful.”

It took her awhile to figure out who the sharpshooter was, to see through the cowboy persona and lazy veneer to the skilled killer underneath. She had been foolish to underestimate him; it wouldn’t happen again.

Reyes smiles bitterly down his hands. ”McCree is a tough little _pendejo._ Shame he turned out to be a deserter.” 

“He was only following his instincts.”

Reyes throws the card. “He ask about me?”

“In an awkward, roundabout way. I gave him an awkward, roundabout answer.”

“What about the younger Shimada? Is he really at peace with what he is?”

Amélie’s face scrunches up as she thinks. She hadn’t really seen much of the cyborg since she was trying to avoid Zenyatta. No point in stirring up more trouble than necessary. 

She knew the basics of the cyborg’s current state. Member of the Shimada clan, Blackwatch agent, brought back from the brink of death, integrated with state-of-the-art technology. She never noticed any signs of self-loathing or disgust. If anything, she would describe him as grounded.

“If not, he’s putting on an impressive show.”  

“Good,” he says, ‘That’s good.”  

Amélie picks up a card and throws it with her left hand. It doesn’t go anywhere near her target.   

“What about Morrison or Amari? They stick with the group or-”

“I’m not doing your groundwork for you, Reyes.”  

His obsession, his problem.  

Reyes grunts but doesn’t look particularly offended at being snuffed.

He stretches out his neck before asking, “What have they done to you?” 

Reyes' tone is controlled but his solid form is rippling with emotion. He has a lot to make up for. At least he’s trying this time. 

“Not much,” Amélie answers honestly. “They give me medication to help stabilize my body; scans and tests to make sure I’m not about to drop dead or go off the rails. The usual. Dr. Ziegler does talks therapy with me.”

They’d put her in solitary confinement for a while. She worked with who ever came down, normally Dr. Winston or Soldier 76, but everyone dropped by at least once to gawk at her. After about a month of that, Dr. Ziegler had started whispering the magic word, _rehabilitation_. Amélie wasn’t sure how Ziegler convinced the others, but she was given the option of therapy in exchange for more freedom around the base. She agreed.

Much to her surprise, Dr. Ziegler made it abundantly clear that she wouldn’t do anything to Widowmaker, physically or psychologically, without her consent. Dr. Ziegler also took a large amount of time to explain the results from said tests and answer any questions she had. It had made her feel odd.

Back then, it had been a landmark realization. Frustration, boredom, and an array of other muted emotions. She _was_ feeling again and she could no longer deny it. She had refused to let that information slip to anyone at Overwatch, especially Ziegler. It all seems so trivial compared to whatever is going on with her now. 

As it turned out, Dr. Ziegler had not acquired a psychology degree during her years of medical training and had absolutely no clue what to do with Widowmaker. Most of their therapy sessions consisted of Ziegler asking her a few questions and then both of them sitting in silence for the next hour. Dr. Ziegler had started using the time to catch up on paperwork and organize files. Widowmaker spent time at her lake, re-living Mondatta’s death, or planning out various hypothetical jobs.

“Ziegler hasn’t been making much progress,” Amélie says.

She supposes there can only be so many results in the psychological databases for _Mind Control But Not Mind Control_ , _Emotionally Repressed as Hell_ ,   _Love of Murder???_ , _and French._

Reyes mulls over this, allowing Amélie to recall Dr. Ziegler’s picture perfect expression of confusion when Widowmaker explained she still remembered everything. It would be quite a disadvantage to have an assassin who didn’t know how to tie their shoes. Strangely, it wasn’t as satisfying as she thought it would be to see Angela so jaded.

“They haven’t done anything else?” Reyes asks, “Anything to try to change you back?”

“No.” 

“Psychiatric drugs? Electrotherapy? Hypnosis?”

“No, nothing.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Reyes,” Amélie says sharply, “It’s _Ziegler_ , not Mengele.”

He grunts at this. Relenting, he grabs a card and shifts into a new sitting position.

“So, you looked like you had fun back there.” he watches her.

“I did,” Amélie replies, allowing the topic to change.

“And how are you feeling?”

She lets the silence hang  before she answers, so soft she herself almost doesn’t hear, “Like it’s not enough.”

“Do you want it to stop?” Reyes’ voice has a dangerous sort of calm to it.

Amélie closes her eyes and leans back against the wall. She thinks back to her kill without a buzz. Enjoying a night out on the town. The garbled mess after the taxi. Feeling like she was suffocating in the freezer. The satisfaction of punching Tracer in the face. The fact that she wants to read a novel for no other reason than she likes the author.

_When was the last time she had fun?_

“No,” she finally answers.

It hurt. The anxiety and rage and dread and grief still hurt. But it felt right, like a broken bone being reset.

“Okay.” Reyes’ face is schooled into a nonjudgmental expression. 

They lapse into silence.

Reaper’s playlist moves onto a song that is mostly screaming with occasional percussion. While Amélie takes more shots with her left hand, Reyes folds his card into a crude paper airplane. He throws it and it immediately takes a nosedive into the laminate floor.

“How--” Amélie trails off.

“Hmm?”

“How do you know if you’re going insane?”

If the question surprises or bothers Reyes he doesn’t show it.

“Well,” his voice is the one he uses for mission planning, “there are your classic B horror movie symptoms. Seeing or hearing things that aren’t there. Believing everyone is out to get you or the gov has mics in your house. ‘Knowing’ that you’re Abraham Lincoln, that a movie star is in love with you, or that chairs have special messages for you.” 

“Then there are the less photogenic symptoms,” Reyes continues, “ Loss of hygiene habits. Refusing to leave a hazardous living environment. Inability to keep your relationships or job. Not sleeping for several days at a time. Refusing to speak to family or friends. Basically, no longer functioning as a normal human being.”

Define ‘normal’, Amélie thinks, staring at him. “That was extensive.”

Reyes shrugs. “Overwatch may have attracted the best and brightest, but some Blackwatch agents came from nasty backgrounds. Like Sombra said, we deal with some real pieces of work.”

She frowns. None of those apply to her except paranoia, but that one is justified.

“Really, the easiest way to tell if you have a problem is when something starts repeatedly interfering with your regular life. And questioning your own sanity is a good thing because truly ‘crazy’ people are so detached from reality they don’t realized they’re suffering from delusions.”

Reyes lets her process that.

“I thought you didn’t want the emotions to stop,” he tilts his head at her.

Amélie shakes her head. “No, feelings are a bitch but it’s really the, mmm, other things.”

Reyes waits. Amélie squeezes her card between her fingers into an arch.

“I’ve been having visions... _envies? Non. Impulsas_ , impulsions, compulsions. Violent compulsions.”

Reyes nods. Control is as much a part of their job as violence is. Widowmaker has a deep-rooted desire to kill, but she is its master, not the other way around.

“Like, intrusive thoughts?

Amélie blinks. “Yes, that would be a good way to describe it.”

Reyes’ scars twist as his face brightens in understanding. “That’s just your brain screwing you over. Even normal people have those. It doesn’t mean you’ll do anything. You don’t have to listen to them.” 

Amélie scowls and places her chin on her knees, drawing further in on herself. “I nearly threw a man, the asset, the mission, out of a car,” she spits out. “I would have killed him.” 

“Did he deserve it?”

“Possibly.”

“Did you want to?”

“... yes.”

“Well, there you go. You wanted it to happen so you let it happen. You don’t want to snap Shorty’s neck, so you won’t.”

The explanation doesn’t sound wrong, per say, but she doesn’t think it covers everything either. Amélie growls wordlessly into her knees. She doubts this is covered in self-help books.

Reyes rolls his eyes. Sensing that sharing time is over, he moves on to business.

“Do you want to go back to Overwatch?” Reyes asks. 

Amélie lifts her head. “You are implying that there is an alternative. I assume this is the extraction you mentioned.”

Reyes nods. “I’ve got this nuclear bunker, built by a filthy rich family in the 40s, they sold it to Uncle Sam during the Crisis. Gov lost it sometime before I ‘died’. It’s designed to hold a dozen people comfortably, got all the necessities and then some. Plus it’s out in Bumfuck, Arizona; better known as the middle of the desert. No one would bother you unless you wanted them to. You could stay there until you’ve figured yourself out.”

Amélie makes a thoughtful noise.

“Arizona. Is that one of your states?”

“Mm-hm.”

“What about Tracer?”

“Transport is still coming. Just say the word and she’ll wake up in the back of some truck halfway to Gibraltar none the wiser.”

Amélie holds up a card, thinking it over. The queen trembles in her fingers. She squints at her hand. It’s shaking ever so slightly. It shouldn’t be doing that. Maybe she needs to eat again? This mission has been more taxing than she anticipated with all the complications and the damned soul-searching. She snaps her wrist and watches the card sail into the trash can.

“I still need almost constant medical attention.”

“I’m sure Sombra could blackmail a few eggheads into helping you.”

“Perhaps,” she says crossing her legs and straightening her spine, “But will they have graduated head of their field at the age of nineteen? Did they pioneer a medical breakthrough that altered war and medicine, as we know it? Could they- if needed- bring me back from the dead?”

Reyes scowls. “Maybe not a singular person, but as a team-”

“If I am going to entrust my life to anyone whether it be Overwatch or Talon or blackmarket surgeons, I rather it be the doctor who is so set in her convictions that she did not buckle even for Overwatch’s Crisis Heroes.” 

Reyes’ expression darkens further.

Amélie didn’t know the details, Ziegler was a professional after all, but she did know that Angela’s staunch pacifistic ideal caused her to speak out against Overwatch’s military tactics more than once. While Angela was brilliant, she wasn’t irreplaceable. The woman had quite a spine. 

Amélie comes to a decision. Her enhancements, her eyes, her altered twitch muscles, are all wonderful advantages in her line of work but her circulation problem has to go. It’s too limiting, causing too many issues, making her too dependent on chemicals and other peoples’ expertise. Back at Talon it gave her an edge, but there were fabrics that can do the same thing. Having an increased heart rate, a normal heart rate, will cause some issues but if other snipers can accommodate for it then so can she. 

If she frames her request correctly, Dr. Ziegler will perform the surgery personally, protecting her before, during, and after the procedure. Poor Angela was always such a bleeding heart. 

And after she’s recovered? Well, maybe she’ll procure a horse to ride off into the sunset. She’d been planning to slip away soon anyway. This mission was the perfect opportunity. (Too perfect, but she’s already wasted hours analyzing that.) At the very least, she’d planned to push boundaries but too many complications popped up and whatever this is.

Her priorities have shifted. She’s not stupid enough to pretend things will be the same when they return to base. With all the combined slip-ups they’ve attracted too much attention. Someone will start putting the pieces together. 

And on the official record or not, she’s sure there will be consequences for her recent actions, but she’s going to have to do this she’s ever going to be truly independent. Zeigler is still her best bet at reversing what has been done to her circulatory system, if that’s even possible. And despite his surface level understanding of psychosis Reaper isn’t exactly a model of mental health and neither is she. Ziegler will at least have resources and connections if there is something truly wrong with her.

“I’m going back to Overwatch,” she says,  “They’ve relaxed their guard around me and I know how to work them. It’s a risk but I have to think about what’s best long-term.”

Now it’s Reyes’ turn to sulk. “I suppose that means you’ll need more gossip to keep stringing them along.”

“If you’d be so kind.” Amélie stands to take her leave. 

“Cheer up, _mon cher,_ it is not a permanent arrangement,” she walks past the brooding killer, “You’ll be seeing me again soon enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by Dot, Snazzy, 2JRC6  
> Thank you to MrClikk for checking my translation.  
> Shoutout to HK52! Thanks for writing me!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented or left kudos!
> 
> Translation  
> Pendejo – (Spanish) Dumbass  
> Envies? Non. – (French) Longings? No.  
> Impulsas – (Spanish) compulsions  
> Mon chér – (French) My Dear
> 
>    
> Mercy: Let's start by talking about the emotions you are feeling right now.  
> Widow: Stabbing.  
> Mercy: Stabbing isn't really an emotion, Ms. Lacroix.  
> Widow: Well, maybe I feel stabby.  
>    
> Reaper's Stats  
> Gumption – 8  
> Chutzpah – 8 total (5 +3 dead bonus)  
> Moxy – 8  
> Childlike Wonder – 1  
> Cut of Your Jib – 2  
> A Certain Je Ne Sais Quoi – 5
> 
>  
> 
> /Proud how this chapter turned out.
> 
> Intrusive thoughts are fairly common, and I think everyone would benefit from doing a little research on them.
> 
> In other news, hamster. Hero 28 is a hamster. Haaammmster.
> 
> This is what’ve dedicated a large portion of my personal time to./


	18. Sombra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Name: Unknown. Occupation: Los Muertos Member. Status: Deceased.
> 
> Name: Sombra. Occupation: Hacker. Status: Opportunist.

Widowmaker strolls out of the kitchen and into the living room, cutting through multiple holoscreens that fill the air. At the center of her, web Sombra sits curled up on the couch, face pinched in concentration. Her fingers flash through the air while lines of code roll down the screens faster than Widowmaker can track. Widowmaker moves into the corner of Sombra’s vision and waits.

Her relationship with Sombra is complex. Widowmaker trusts the hacker about as far as she can throw her, but it was nice having someone around to talk about things other than revenge and combat strategies. Sombra made a distinct effort to interact with Widowmaker, badgering her with questions and jokes, sometimes just to get a rise out of her, and other times Sombra showed she remembered Widowmaker’s responses. But, well, Widowmaker was too big of a threat for Sombra not to have a contingency plan for.

Sombra stretches, shaking herself out of her haze. Her eyes flick to the form standing at the end of the couch.

 _“Ara_ _ñ_ _a!”_ Sombra closes a window and waves her over. “What brings you to my little comer of Overwatch’s terrible hideout?”

“A few things,” Widowmaker says. Sombra perks up smelling blood in the water. “I have information for sale,” Widowmaker continues.

“Now you’re speaking my language. But first,” Sombra holds up a finger and pulls out a disk. A spherical shield expands from it creating a surveillance-free bubble. “Now, whose information?”

“Overwatch.”

“I’m already keeping tabs on them,” Sombra says dismissively, “Their security isn’t as tight as they think it is. Their AI is a real fighter though, keeps things interesting.”

“I suppose you already know about Captain Song.”

“Pink Tokki battle mech, rabbit gimmick, decent strategist, face paint,” Sombra rattles off characteristics like she’s reading from a dossier. “She has a YouTube channel.”

“And their new leadership?”

“The ape? He’s doing better than I expected at keeping everyone in line, but he thinks too small. I don’t need to worry about him.”

“I was talking about his advisors.” Sombra’s laissez-faire posture stutters. “And of course,” Widowmaker says examining her fingernails, “you must already know all about the cyborg’s new friend and what Torbjörn has been up to.”

Sombra gives in, taking a swipe at the shiny bauble Widowmaker is dangling in front of her. “How much do you want?”

“An ‘I Owe You’ will do for now.”

“What level of IOU are we talking?” Sombra asks, “Bronze? Gold? Diamond bedazzled Palladium?”

Widowmaker resists the urge to rub the bridge of her nose, she knows Sombra just made those up.

“I’m going back to Gibraltar,” Widowmaker reveals,  “in six months to a year I’ll be leaving permanently. I need you to keep an ear to the ground in case things go sour before that. And resist the urge to kick the hornet’s nest when I’m near it.”

“And if the merry band of misfits decide they want you back, do you want me to do something?” Sombra probes.

Overwatch may not care when she up and vanishes one day but if they want her back or dead McCree and Ana will be the first on her trail.

“Just do what you normally do and come up with a plan that’s more sophisticated than shooting them in the face,” Widowmaker says.

Sombra thinks for a second then nods. “That’s fair.” Graphs and web charts flicker into existence around her. “Now spill.”

Widowmaker was originally assigned to Reaper and Sombra to keep an eye on Talon’s latest investments. She never said anything; heavens no, but it wasn’t exactly difficult to figure out. It caused some issues.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

She crosses her arms and reports, “Winston is still attempting to lead the group but it appears the younger Amari is acting as his unofficial second-in-command. Dr. Ziegler is also a confidant and seems to have an unusual amount of sway. All outgoing missions continue to focus on improving relationships with Russia, Korea, and generally reducing human/omnic tensions.”

Sombra types furiously, bullet point notes appearing around her and new connections springing into existence on a webchart.

“Song has become a semi-permanent feature to the offensive team, which means her mech is available for almost all missions. Her presence suggests Korea has some interest in the group?”

“Probably,” Sombra says not really answering her question.

“Zenyatta was at Gibraltar when I left. Omnic, humanoid model, Shambali monk; it appears he’s been teaching the cyborg his philosophies.”

“Are the Shambali working with them?”

“I don’t think so. There hasn’t been any attempt at regular communication with the monastery. Zenyatta might be nomadic. Regardless, he seems to have been accepted as an unofficial member.”

“Does he float?” Sombra asks.

“Pardon?”

“There are rumors that the Shambali have weird mystical powers,” Sombra clarifies pulling up some images, “I’ve seen a few vids but that doesn’t mean anything these days. Can he really float?”

“Yes,” Widowmaker confirms.

The omnic floats, his prayer necklace beads float, sometimes they glow, sometimes _he_ glows. Nothing about the omnic makes any sense. How is she supposed to come up with a decent strategy for that?

“Coooool,” Sombra says drawing out the word. “He’ll be fun to hack.”

“Lastly, Torbjörn has located and recovered a Bastion unit.”

“A Bastion?” Sombra chokes out. “You’re joking. You gotta be joking, right? Tell me you’re joking. _Mierda,_ you don’t tell jokes.”

“No,” Widowmaker says sounding tired, “A real, online -albeit covered in shrubbery- Bastion unit. But, it’s not being used as target practice. Torbjörn keeps it hidden on private property. The weapons designer has been making parts and smuggling them off base to repair or handicap it. Apparently, it’s programming has been corrupted to a certain degree.”

Sombra stops swearing and looks at her.

“I overheard him discussing it with Reinhardt,” Widowmaker says,  “It’s reported to have childlike behavior patterns. That’s all I know about it. You’ll have to forgive me for not learning more, but I have my limits. I’m trusting you to come up with something for it.”

“Well, I can’t say you don’t deliver,” Sombra mutters as she finishes typing her last line in all caps. “One Palladium IOU on the books.”

Sombra saves the documents and gives Widowmaker her full attention. “So what was that other thing you wanted?” she asks, “Please, don’t tell me you also know about an upcoming apocalypses or a gang of super mutants.”

“I want to put in an information request,” Widowmaker says.

A Cheshire grin slides on to Sombra’s face. The screens change with a flash. Purple nails drag through reports on military movements, personal bank accounts, stock numbers, scandals, gambling rings, and social media accounts. Always such the show off.

“So, what do you want to know?” Sombra purrs.

“Everything on Amélie Lacroix.”

Sombra stops her flashy display, hands hovering in the air. She looks at Widowmaker, her eyes questioning. Widowmaker stares back, expressionless as always. Sombra nods. She snaps her wrists and the screens change, articles replaced with blocks of text and rifle schematics.

Sombra flicks open a new page and drags it over to Widowmaker before returning to her search.

Widowmaker reads the file. It is a list of ten names. Most she recognizes, a few she does not. Some have dates next to them; others have timers. She memorizes the hit list and begins roughing out plans of attack. Poison for the General, easy enough to make it look like an allergic reaction. Bullet for Miss Propaganda Writer, the death will be cleaner than she deserves. Human Trafficking Ringleader, something special will be needed for him.

“Where is the rest of it?” Widowmaker asks as she finishes mentally sorting through mansion blueprints. She knows what she’s paying for. Pulling someone’s life story -especially if they are related to Talon or Overwatch- does not come cheap. The hit list should be two to three times longer than it is.

“That’s it,” Sombra says still working.

Widowmaker glares at her; the barrel of a loaded gun would have looked more friendly in comparison. Sombra glances back and rolls her eyes.

“It’s a new thing I’m doing. I call it the ‘Save My Life Discount.’” Sombra spreads her arms. “Remember that tiger guy in Nepal? He didn’t have any tech I could hack and my camo didn’t work because he could smell me or something.

“My gun jammed and he rushed me. I thought, ‘This is how I die: mauled by a furry.’ Then you put one right between his eyes. _Bang!”_ Sombra mimics shooting a gun. “You saved me from the most embarrassing death ever‒so yeah, you get a discount.”

Sombra flashes her a smile and returns to her screens. Widowmaker frowns. Nothing in life is free but she’ll accept the apparent gesture of goodwill.

Something in the mass of digital files pings. Everything stops and then the documents vanish, leaving a lavender cube behind. Sombra reaches out and grabs the virtual box. She hands it to Widowmaker. Blue fingers hesitate for a fraction of a second before tapping the surface. Pages and pages of medical procedures, diets, psychological profiling, grades, ballet performances, wedding certificate, business documents, aptitude tests, mission summaries, handler notes, glowing reports, and hundreds of photographs explode into the space around her.

_Breathe._

Widowmaker manipulates the pages into chronological order, a timeline of her life from an outsider’s perspective. She starts at the end and begins to work backwards.

The first document discusses a few unknown sniper kills that aren’t good enough to be hers. The next is a record of messages between Board Directors about the manhunt and Reaper finding ‘her’ body.

She picks up speed, flipping through the holo-pages faster. Mission reports of her, Reaper, and Sombra. Volskava. Mondatta, her finest kill. Evaluations of her and Reaper’s compatibility. The Doom Fist failure. Older missions with Reaper. Her working alone. Assassinations of key ex-Overwatch agents. The collapse of Overwatch. Her final enhancement surgery. Training. Assignments as Team Leader. Approval of her idea for the creation of a self-triggering chemical mine. Missions as Team Sniper. More training. Her first surgery, just twitch muscles and reflex enrichments. Then the documents start jumping, skipping over first weeks then months at a time.

“That’s everything my bots found on Talon’s encrypted servers. You’ll notice there are some gaps,” Sombra says apologetically, “Whatever isn’t there is are personal notes that were either kept on an isolated drive or physical paper.”

Widowmaker stops the slider. The timeline is certainly pretty but it’s not getting her anywhere. She focuses the search on medical files. A few thousand results pop up, everything from scratches to bullet wounds. Widowmaker narrows the search by throwing in some keywords and restrictions. She’s rewarded with a few hundred results.

Widowmaker huffs in frustration. There’s got to be some sort of condensed report somewhere; CEOs don’t have time for all this scientific jargon. There’s an idea.

She changes her search for documents sent to higher levels. Hundreds of documents come up, mostly emails, but they are all blessedly short with clear subject lines. Now she’s getting somewhere. Widowmaker gets rid of everything related to missions or training and keeps the ones related to the keyword ‘treatment.’

“Going to warn you,” Sombra advises, “some of that stuff is pretty messed up. You don’t have to look at it right now. Or ever. I mean you have just as much of a right to know as you do to not to.”

Widowmaker pauses. And then opens the email that looks most promising.

* * *

 

    

To: [Restricted Lvl E] [Restricted Lvl C] [Restricted Lvl C]

From: [Decoded -Dr.O]

Subject: All Enrichments Made to Operative WM

Date: June 24, 2072  

 

**Operative IEB0003277 (Widowmaker) Lacroix, Am** **é** **lie**

 

    

** Physical ** ** >**

Isolated >

Systemic >

 

** Psychological ** **v**

Recommended continue maintenance pattern indefinitely as past subjects have deteriorated if removed. Attempting to integrate vastly dissimilar protocols will have the same effect **.**

 

Current v

Current Maintenance Version 02 [15/11/73]

Previous Maintenance Routine [15/05/73]

Updates v  

Blinders Reinstated [Indefinite-15/09/72]

 

Blinders [Terminated -15/12/71]

Execution Reward Subroutine [Indefinite – 01/08/71]

Hypothalamus Moderation [Completed – 28/10/71]

 

Blinders [Commenced 20/04/71]

White Coat Protocol [Indefinite – 20/04/71]

Amygdala Rewrite, Alexithymia Pattern [Indefinite – 15/03/71]

 

Re-Education Phase II [Completed – 10/02/70]

          

Base v

Re-Education Base [Completed – 01/11/70]

Pavlov Subroutine [Indefinite – 01/05/70]

Trapdoor Loop [Completed -01/12/70]

 

Date last accessed: 27/03/75

NP: Quizá esto sera útil. Investiga más a fondo.

 

* * *

 

Well. That’s a lot to process.

Widowmaker glances down at her hands. The digits are rock steady. That’s good? Maybe? She returns to the document. This is what she was looking for. She wanted to know what her bimonthly ‘treatment’ entailed. It looks like she’s been switched over to a maintenance pattern for the past few years, if this is correct.

The implications of re-education are disquieting but she suspected something like that would be there. The other programs will require more digging and probably several English-to-French and Medical dictionaries.

She reaches to close the document but she’s drawn back to the list of programs. Trapdoor Loop. Odd name for something, but it sounds familiar. She thinks she knows it. Trapdoor. Something itches insider her brain. She tries to tease the memory out. It feels like there are thousands of tiny spiders crawling under her skin. She _should_ know it.

_Metal under her palms slick with sweat. Talon could not be resisted. Her legs numb from the days of sitting in the same chair. Talon could not be fought. Where was Overwatch? Where was G_ _é_ _rard? Talon will prevail._

Amélie’s hand clamps onto Sombra’s neck, her grip strengthened by countless hours of target practice. The screens she lunged through make a kaleidoscope pattern in Sombra’s eyes. _“Vous_ _é_ _tiez au courant,”_  Amélie growls.

_“_ _¡_ _Ah!_ _¡_ _Azul se calma!”_

There’s a flash and Sombra dissolves out of her hand, translocating to the other side of the room and the edge of the bubble.

“Widow, chill,” Sombra commands. Her hands come up empty, the machine pistol staying holstered. Amélie responds by keeping her distance.

“You knew,” Amélie repeats, forcing the words around clenched teeth, her accent further distorting the phrase. _“Years_ , you knew and you did not do a single thing.”

Sombra stares at her, hard and serious, the joking demeanor abandoned.

“Yeah, I knew once upon a time you were a less than a willing accomplice. But look me in the eye and tell me it would have made a lick of difference. You loved being Talon’s lap dog, their prized science project. If I had shown this to whatever remained of Amélie Lacroix a day before they gave the kill order, you would have turned over my body to the Directors.

You loved the killing. You loved the attention. You loved being Widowmaker. Tell me I’m wrong, _friend_.” Violet eyes burn into her.

She can’t. She can’t tell Sombra that she’s wrong. That she would have abandoned her life over several hundred gigabytes of information. Ice water floods Amélie’s body, extinguishing her rage. She crosses her arms and turns away. Screens float around her, re-centering on her face.

Behind her, Sombra rubs at her neck before starting again, “Look: the world is a terrible, cruel, uncaring place. If you want to have any sort of power, you gotta be willing to step on others. It wasn’t anything personal. I was just looking out for priority number one,” Sombra’s tone softens, “You understand that.”

Amélie untucks her hand and examines it. Her lilac-blue skin tone shifts to a deep purple around her fingertips. If spreads her digits she can still pick out her veins below the surface. Pianist fingers, she was often told. Having slender extremities helped continuing the illusion that a dancer was weightless in the air. Now her hands are also adorned with marks and calluses from years of handling her rifle.

She understands perfectly.

_“C’est la vie,”_ Amélie whispers.

“Ah, you want to repeat that?” Sombra asks cautiously.

“I would not have killed you,” Amélie motions to the virtual cube of data, “if you had given this to me earlier.”

“Glad to see my charm and good looks are finally doing something for me. What would have you done instead?”

Amélie shrugs. “Told you to go dark for a while, then reported a security breach.”

Talon knew the risks of bringing Sombra onboard. There would have been protocols for that type of situation. On the other side, Sombra knew how to play with fire without getting burned. She could handle the fallout if she was tipped off.

Sombra cocks her head to the side, trying to get a read on her honesty. “Widow, I’m touched.” She places a hand over her heart.

Amélie rolls her eyes and drops her arms.

“Just keeping the scales balanced, _ombre.”_ Amélie turns around so she can face Sombra more fully. “You’re too useful to for me to let you die that easily. Nothing personal, remember?”

Sombra's expression flickers, but she agrees, “Nothing personal.” 

Amélie returns to looking at, but not really seeing, her cubistesque search results. She's going to need a bottle of 2010 Caber by the end of today, isn't she. Taking her lack of movement to mean she is safe, Sombra starts moving toward the couch. A tagged document floats up into Amélie’s vision. It’s an Overwatch official mandate caught in the search but it’s been signed off by Dr. Winston and is only a few days old. Her name is on it and so is Tracer’s.

Amélie skims the mandate and then goes over it twice more, triple checking that she’s reading it correctly.

This -she thinks tapping her chin- is very interesting and not related to Talon or Sombra or ‘treatments’ at all. Obviously, the rest of her medical documents should be pursued at a later time. And the confrontation that is surely to come from investigating this will be a nice break.

“Thank you for the information Sombra,” Amélie says manipulating the cube so the files fly back into it. She twists the box and it vanishes.

“Ey, you’re welcome. Only the best for people who don’t strangle me,” Sombra says, reaching for the projection disk. “It’s already locked under your genetic signature so I’ll just transfer it to your ghost account.”

Amélie nods and walks off, the anti-surveillance shield fading around her.

“You know I charge for that service right?” Sombra calls after her.

Amélie gives her a little wave as she crosses into the bedroom. Time to have a chat with her favorite little annoyance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by Dot, Misty, 2JRC6 
> 
> Translations
> 
> Quizá esto sera útil. Top of Form
> 
> Investiga más a fondo. – (Spanish) Might be useful. Investigate further.
> 
> vous étiez au courant - ( French) You knew.
> 
> Azul, calmas – (Spanish) Blue, calm down!
> 
> C’est la vie – (French) that is life
> 
> Ombre – (French) shadow
> 
>  
> 
> *
> 
>  
> 
> AN
> 
> /Good News - The Betas really liked this chapter. 
> 
> Bad News - Posting schedule update – With my current schedule I can only get up 2-3 chapters and then have to take a month off. This will be the new pattern until further notice. Since the Fall Semester is starting there will be no update for September.
> 
> Neutral News - Even though Sass is already tagged as such I’m officially declaring this story an AU. The rest of the story hinges heavily on headcanons and filling in lore gaps. Which means most likely at some point in the future a lot of things will be canon divergent. As a reader if you’ve reached this point you probably don’t care but now you’ve been officially warned./
> 
>  
> 
> Talon Executive: We are aware Reaper and Sombra can be... difficult to work with for an extended periods of time. Can you stand being in this position for the foreseeable future?
> 
> \- Flashback-
> 
> Reaper: I brought you back this cool gun from my mission. Sorry about the blood.
> 
> Sombra: I hope you’re not doing anything for the next two hours Arana! I found a braiding channel on the net. I can make it look like a face or a rose is coming out of the back of your head. Your choice!
> 
> -End-
> 
> Widow: I can handle it.
> 
>  
> 
> Sombra’s Stats
> 
> Gumption – 8
> 
> Chutzpah – 9 (5 +2 invisibility bonus +2 translocater bonus)
> 
> Moxy – 8
> 
> Childlike Wonder – 4
> 
> Cut of Her Gib – 6
> 
> A Certain Je Ne Sais Quoi – 6


End file.
